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Engraved  on  wood,  by  L.  F.   Grant. 
From  a   photograph. 


HERMAN    MELVILLE 

MARINER  AND  MYSTIC 


BY 


RAYMOND  M.  WEAVER 


NEW  HIPjy  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1921, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


GIFT 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

PROFESSOR  FRANKLIN  T.  BAKER 

—  /'/  maestro  cortese  ' ' 


355 


To  Professor  Carl  Van  Doren,  to  Miss  Cora  Paget, 
and  to  Mrs.  Eleanor  Melville  Metcalf,  I  am,  in  the  writ 
ing  of  this  book,  very  especially  indebted.  By  Professor 
Van  Doren's  enthusiasm  and  scholarship  I  was  instigated 
to  a  study  of  Melville.  It  has  been  my  privilege  to  enjoy 
Miss  Paget's  very  valuable  criticism  and  assistance 
throughout  the  preparation  of  this  volume.  Mrs.  Met 
calf  gave  me  access  to  all  the  surviving  records  of  her 
grandfather:  Melville  manuscripts,  letters,  journals,  an 
notated  books,  photographs,  and  a  variety  of  other  ma 
terial.  But  she  did  far  more.  My  indebtedness  to  Mrs. 
Metcalf's  vivid  interest,  her  shrewd  insight,  her  keen 
sympathy  can  be  stated  only  in  superlatives.  To  Mrs. 
and  Mr.  Metcalf  I  owe  one  of  the  richest  and  most 
pleasant  associations  of  my  life. 

RAYMOND  M.  WEAVER. 
October  J, 


P690189 


.7U 


Most  of  the  letters  of  Melville  to  Hawthorne 
included  in  this  volume  are  quoted  from  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne  and  His  Wije,  by  Julian  Hawthorne. 
These  letters,  and  other  citations  from  Mr.  Haw 
thorne's  memoir,  are  included  through  the  cour 
tesy  of  Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  DEVIL'S  ADVOCATE 15 

II  GHOSTS 33 

III  PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS 53 

IV  A  SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL       ...  77 
V  DISCOVERIES  ON  Two  CONTINENTS   ...        .98 

VI  PEDAGOGY,  PUGILISM  AND  LETTERS  .        .        .        .113 

VII  BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM 128 

VIII  LEVIATHAN .  153 

IX  THE  PACIFIC 170 

X  MAN-EATING  EPICURES — THE  MARQUESAS      .       .  194 

XI  MUTINY  AND  MISSIONARIES — TAHITI      .       .        .215 

XII  ON  BOARD  A  MAN-OF-WAR 233 

XIII  INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE 250 

XIV  ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN 283 

XV  A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S       ....  305 

XVI  THE  GREAT  REFUSAL 334 

XVII  THE  LONG  QUIETUS 349 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 385 

INDEX  OF  NAMES 391 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

HERMAN  MELVILLE Frontispiece 


PAGE 


MELVILLE'S  GRANDFATHERS 40 

GENERAL  PETER  GANSEVOORT^ 

MAJOR  THOMAS  MELVILLE 

ALLAN  MELVILLE 56 

MARIA  GANSEVOORT  MELVILLE 64 

IN  1820 

IN  1865 

A  PAGE  FROM  ONE  OF  MELVILLE'S  JOURNALS        .       .       .  104 

THROWING  THE  HARPOON 136 

SOUNDING 136 

SPERM  WHALING.    THE  CAPTURE 160 

ONE  OF  Six  WHALING  PRINTS 160 

"TOBY."    RICHARD  TOBIAS  GREENE 164 

IN  1846 

IN  1865 

EVANGELISING  POLYNESIA 184 

RICHARD  TOBIAS  GREENE.    IN  1885 200 

FIRST    HOME    OF    THE    PROTESTANT    MISSIONARIES    IN 

TAHITI 224 

THE  FLEET  OF  TAHITI 224 

ELIZABETH  SHAW  MELVILLE 272 

ARROWHEAD 312 

THE  FIREPLACE.    ARROWHEAD 312 

HERMAN  MELVILLE.     IN  1868 352 

MELVILLE  As  ARTIST 368 

MELVILLE'S  CHILDREN 376 

xi 


HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Mariner  and  Mystic 


HERMAN  MELVILLE 


CHAPTER  I 
DEVIL'S  ADVOCATE 

"!F  ever,  my  dear  Hawthorne/'  wrote  Melville  in  the  sum 
mer  of  1851,  "we  shall  sit  down  in  Paradise  in  some  little  shady 
corner  by  ourselves;  and  if  we  shall  by  any  means  be  able  to 
smuggle  a  basket  of  champagne  there  (I  won't  believe  in  a 
Temperance  Heaven) ;  and  if  we  shall  then  cross  our  celestial 
legs  in  the  celestial  grass  that  is  forever  tropical,  and  strike 
our  glasses  and  our  heads  together  till  both  ring  musically  in 
concert:  then,  O  my  dear  fellow  mortal,  how  shall  we  pleas 
antly  discourse  of  all  the  things  manifold  which  now  so  much 
distress  us."  This  serene  and  laughing  desolation — a  mood 
which  in  Melville  alternated  with  a  deepening  and  less  tranquil 
despair — is  a  spectacle  to  inspire  with  sardonic  optimism  those 
who  gloat  over  the  vanity  of  human  wishes.  For  though  at 
that  time  Melville  was  only  thirty-two  years  old,  he  had 
crowded  into  that  brief  space  of  life  a  scope  of  experience  to 
rival  Ulysses',  and  a  literary  achievement  of  a  magnitude  and 
variety  to  merit  all  but  the  highest  fame.  Still  did  he  luxuriate 
in  tribulation.  Well-born,  and  nurtured  in  good  manners  and 
a  cosmopolitan  tradition,  he  was,  like  George  Borrow,  and  Sir 
Richard  Burton,  a  gentleman  adventurer  in  the  barbarous  out 
posts  of  human  experience.  Nor  was  his  a  kid-gloved  and  ex 
pensively  staged  dip  into  studio  savagery.  "For  my  part,  I 
abominate  all  honourable  respectable  toils,  trials,  and  tribula 
tions  of  every  kind  whatsoever,"  he  declared.  And  as  proof 
of  this  abomination  he  went  forth  penniless  as  a  common  sailor 
to  view  the  watery  world.  He  spent  his  youth  and  early  man- 
is 


16  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

hood  in  the  forecastles  of  a  merchantman,  several  whalers, 
and  a  man-of-war.  He  diversified  whale-hunting  by  a  sojourn 
of  four  months  among  practising  cannibals,  and  a  mutiny  off 
Tahiti.  He  returned  home  to  New  England  to  marry  the 
daughter  of  Chief  Justice  Shaw  of  Massachusetts,  and  to  win 
wide  distinction  as  a  novelist  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic. 
Though  these  crowded  years  had  brought  with  them  bitter 
hardship  and  keen  suffering,  he  had  sown  in  tears  that  he  might 
reap  in  triumph.  But  when  he  wrote  to  Hawthorne  he  felt  that 
triumph  had  not  been  achieved.  Yet  he  needed  but  one  con 
clusive  gesture  to  provoke  the  world  to  cry  this  as  a  lie  in  his 
throat:  one  last  sure  sign  to  convince  all  posterity  that  he 
was,  indeed,  one  whom  the  gods  loved.  But  the  gods  fatally 
withheld  their  sign  for  forty  years.  Melville  did  not  die  until 
1891. 

None  of  Melville's  critics  seem  ever  to  have  been  able  to 
forgive  him  his  length  of  days.  "Some  men  die  too  soon," 
said  Nietzsche,  "others  too  late;  there  is  an  art  in  dying  at 
the  right  time."  Melville's  longevity  has  done  deep  harm  to 
his  reputation  as  an  artist  in  dying,  and  has  obscured  the  phe 
nomenal  brilliancy  of  his  early  literary  accomplishment.  The 
last  forty  years  of  his  history  are  a  record  of  a  stoical — and 
sometimes  frenzied — distaste  for  life,  a  perverse  and  sedulous 
contempt  for  recognition,  an  interest  in  solitude,  in  etchings 
and  in  metaphysics.  In  his  writings  after  1851  he  employed 
a  world  of  pains  to  scorn  the  world :  a  compliment  returned 
in  kind.  During  the  closing  years  of  his  life  he  violated  the 
self-esteem  of  the  world  still  more  by  rating  it  as  too  inconse 
quential  for  condemnation.  He  earned  his  living  between 
1866  and  1886  as  inspector  of  Customs  in  New  York  city. 
His  deepest  interest  came  to  be  in  metaphysics :  which  is  but 
misery  dissolved  in  thought.  It  may  be,  to  the  all-seeing  eye 
of  truth,  that  Melville's  closing  years  were  the  most  glorious 
of  his  life.  But  to  the  mere  critic  of  literature,  his  strange 
career  is  like  a  star  that  drops  a  line  of  streaming  fire  down 
the  vault  of  the  sky — and  then  the  dark  and  blasted  shape  that 
sinks  into  the  earth. 

There  are  few  more  interesting  problems  in  biography  than 


DEVIL'S  ADVOCATE  17 

this  offered  by  Melville's  paradoxical  career :  its  brilliant  early 
achievement,  its  long  and  dark  eclipse.  Yet  in  its  popular 
statement,  this  problem  is  perverted  from  the  facts  by  an  in 
sufficient  knowledge  of  Melville's  life  and  works.  The  current 
opinion  was  thus  expressed  by  an  uncircumspect  critic  at  the 
time  of  Melville's  centenary  in  1919 :  "Owing  to  some  odd  psy 
chological  experience,  that  has  never  been  definitely  explained, 
his  style  of  writing,  his  view  of  life  underwent  a  complete 
change.  From  being  a  writer  of  stirring,  vivid  fiction,  he  be 
came  a  dreamer,  wrapping  himself  up  in  a  vague  kind  of  mys 
ticism,  that  rendered  his  last  few  books  such  as  Pierre:  or  The 
Ambiguities  and  The  Confidence  Man:  His  Masquerade  quite 
incomprehensible,  and  certainly  most  uninteresting  for  the 
average  reader." 

Unhampered  by  diffidence — because  innocent  of  the  essen 
tial  facts — critics  of  Melville  have  been  fluent  in  hypothesis  to 
account  for  this  "complete  change."  A  German  critic  pa 
triotically  lays  the  blame  on  Kant.  English-speaking  critics, 
with  insular  pride,  have  found  a  sufficiency  of  disruptive  agen 
cies  nearer  at  home.  Some  impute  Melville's  decline  to  Sir 
Thomas  Browne;  others  to  Melville's  intimacy  with  Haw 
thorne;  others  to  the  dispraise  heaped  upon  Pierre.  Though 
there  is  a  semblance  of  truth  in  each,  such  attempts  at  explana 
tion  are,  of  course,  too  shallow  and  neat  to  merit  reprobation. 
But  there  is  another  group  of  critics,  too  considerable  in  size 
and  substance  to  be  so  cavalierly  dismissed.  This  company  ac 
counts  for  Melville's  swift  obscuration  in  a  summary  and  com 
prehensive  manner,  by  intimating  that  Melville  went  insane. 

Such  an  intimation  is  doubtless  highly  efficacious  to  medioc 
rity  in  bolstering  its  own  self-esteem.  But  otherwise  it  is  with 
out  precise  intellectual  content.  For  insanity  is  not  a  definite 
entity  like  leprosy,  measles,  and  the  bubonic  plague,  but  even 
in  its  most  precise  use,  denotes  a  conglomerate  group  of  phe 
nomena  which  have  but  little  in  common.  Science,  it  is  true, 
speaking  through  Nordau  and  Lombroso,  has  attempted  to 
show  an  intimate  correlation  between  genius  and  degeneracy; 
and  if  the  creative  imagination  of  some  of  the  disciples  of 
Freud  is  to  be  trusted,  the  choir  invisible  is  little  more  than  a 


18  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

glorified  bedlam.  Plato  would  have  accepted  this  verdict  with 
approval.  "From  insanity,"  said  Plato,  "Greece  has  derived 
its  greatest  benefits."  But  the  dull  and  decent  Philistine,  un 
touched  by  Platonic  heresies,  justifies  his  sterility  in  a  boast  of 
sanity.  The  America  in  which  Melville  was  born  and  died  was 
exuberantly  and  unquestionably  "sane."  Its  "sanity"  drove 
Irving  abroad  and  made  a  recluse  of  Hawthorne.  Cooper 
alone  throve  upon  it.  And  of  Melville,  more  ponderous  in 
gifts  and  more  volcanic  in  energy  than  any  other  American 
writer,  it  made  an  Ishmael  upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  With 
its  outstanding  symptoms  of  materialism  and  conformity  it 
drove  Emerson  to  pray  for  an  epidemic  of  madness :  "O  Celes 
tial  Bacchus!  drive  them  mad. — This  multitude  of  vagabonds, 
hungry  for  eloquence,  hungry  for  poetry,  starving  for  sym 
bols,  perishing  for  want  of  electricity  to  vitalise  this  too  much 
pasture,  and  in  the  long  delay  indemnifying  themselves  with 
the  false  wine  of  alcohol,  of  politics,  of  money." 

From  this  it  would  appear  that  a  taste  for  insanity  has  been 
widespread  among  poets,  prophets  and  saints :  men  venerated 
more  by  posterity  than  by  their  neighbours.  It  is  well  for  So 
crates  that  Xantippe  did  not  write  his  memoirs :  but  there  was 
sufficient  libel  in  hemlock.  In  ancient  and  mediaeval  times,  of 
course,  madness,  when  not  abhorred  as  a  demoniac  possession, 
was  revered  as  a  holy  and  mysterious  visitation.  To-day, 
,  witch-burning  and  canonisation  have  given  place  to  more  re 
fined  devices.  The  herd  must  always  be  intolerant  of  all  who 
violate  its  sacred  and  painfully  reared  traditions.  With  an 
easy  conscience  it  has  always  exterminated  in  the  flesh  those 
who  sin  in  the  flesh.  In  times  less  timid  than  the  present  it 
dealt  with  sins  of  the  spirit  with  similar  crude  vindictiveness. 
We  boast  it  as  a  sign  of  our  progress  that  we  have  outgrown 
the  days  of  jubilant  public  crucifixions  and  bumpers  of  hem 
lock:  and  there  is  ironic  justice  in  the  boast.  Openly  to  har 
bour  convictions  repugnant  to  the  herd  is  still  the  unforgivable 
sin  against  that  most  holy  of  ghosts — fashionable  opinion  ;  and 
carelessly  to  let  live  may  be  more  cruel  than  officiously  to 
cause  to  die. 

Melville  sinned  blackly  against  the  orthodoxy  of  his  time. 


DEVIL'S  ADVOCATE  19 

In  his  earlier  works,  he  confined  his  sins  to  an  attack  upon 
Missionaries  and  the  starchings  of  civilisation:  sins  that  won 
him  a  succes  dc  scandal.  The  London  Missionary  Society 
charged  into  the  resulting  festivities  with  its  flag  at  half  mast. 
Cased  in  the  armour  of  the  Lord,  it  with  flagrant  injustice  at 
tacked  his  morals,  because  it  smarted  under  his  ideas.  But 
when  Melville  began  flooding  the  very  foundations  of  life  with 
torrents  of  corrosive  pessimism,  the  world  at  large  found  it 
self  more  vulnerable  in  its  encasement.  It  could  not,  without 
absurdity  obvious  even  to  itself,  accuse  Melville  of  any  of  the 
cruder  crimes  against  Jehovah  or  the  Public.  Judged  by  the 
bungling  provisions  of  the  thirty-nine  articles  and  the  penal 
code,  he  was  not  a  bad  man :  more  subtle  was  his  iniquity.  As 
by  a  divine  visitation,  the  Harper  fire  of  1853  effectually  re 
duced  Pierre — his  most  frankly  poisonous  book — to  a  safely 
limited  edition.  And  the  public,  taking  the  hint,  ceased  buying 
his  books.  In  reply,  Melville  earned  his  bread  as  Inspector  of 
Customs.  The  public,  defeated  in  its  righteous  attempts  at 
starvation,  hit  upon  a  more  exquisite  revenge.  It  gathered  in 
elegiacal  synods  and  whispered  mysteriously :  "He  went  in 
sane." 

To  view  Melville's  life  as  a  venturesome  romantic  idyll 
frozen  in  mid-career  by  the  deus  ex  machina  of  some  steadily 
descending  Gorgon  is  possible  only  by  a  wanton  misreading  of 
patent  facts.  Throughout  Melville's  long  life  his  warring  and 
untamed  desires  were  in  violent  conflict  with  his  physical  and 
spiritual  environment.  His  whole  history  is  the  record  of  an 
attempt  to  escape  from  an  inexorable  and  intolerable  world  of 
reality :  a  quenchless  and  essentially  tragic  Odyssey  away  from 
home,  out  in  search  of  "the  unpeopled  world  behind  the  sun." 
In  the  blood  and  bone  of  his  youth  he  sailed  away  in  brave 
quest  of  such  a  harbour,  to  face  inevitable  defeat.  For  this 
rebuff  he  sought  both  solace  and  revenge  in  literature.  But  by 
literature  he  also  sought  his  livelihood.  In  the  first  burst  of 
literary  success  he  married.  Held  closer  to  reality  by  financial 
worry  and  the  hostages  of  wife  and  children,  the  conflict  within 
him  was  heightened.  By  a  vicious  circle,  with  brooding  disap 
pointment  came  ill  health.  "Ah,  muskets  the  gods  have  made 


20  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

to  carry  infinite  combustion,"  he  wrote  in  Pierre,  "and  yet 
made  them  of  clay."  The  royalties  from  his  books  proved  in 
adequate  for  the  support  of  his  family,  so  for  twenty  years  he 
earned  a  frugal  living  in  the  customs  houses  in  New  York. 
During  his  leisure  hours  he  continued  to  write,  but  never  for 
publication.  Two  volumes  of  poetry  he  privately  printed. 
His  last  novel,  surviving  in  manuscript,  he  finished  a  few 
months  before  his  death.  Though  it  is  for  the  second  half 
that  his  critics  have  felt  bound  to  regret,  it  seems  that  in  seren 
ity  and  mental  equipoise,  the  last  state  of  this  man  was  better 
than  the  first. 

In  his  early  manhood  he  wrote  in  Mardi:  "Though  essaying 
but  a  sportive  sail,  I  was  driven  from  my  course  by  a  blast  re 
sistless;  and  ill-provided,  young,  and  bowed  by  the  brunt  of 
things  before  my  prime,  still  fly  before  the  gale.  ...  If  after 
all  these  fearful  fainting  trances,  the  verdict  be,  the  golden 
haven  was  not  gained; — yet  in  bold  quest  thereof,  better  to 
sink  in  boundless  deeps  than  float  on  vulgar  shoals;  and  give 
me,  ye  gods,  an  utter  wreck,  if  wreck  I  do."  To  the  world  at 
large,  it  has  been  generally  believed  that  the  Gods  ironically 
fulfilled  his  worst  hopes. 

One  William  Cranston  Lawton,  in  an  Introduction  to  the 
Study  of  American  Literature — a  handy  relic  of  the  parrot 
judgment  passed  upon  Melville  during  the  closing  years  of  his 
life — so  enlightens  young  America:  "He  holds  his  own  beside 
Cooper  and  Marryat,  and  boy  readers,  at  least,  will  need  no 
introduction  to  him.  Nor  will  their  enjoyment  ever  be  alloyed 
by  a  Puritan  moral  or  a  mystic  double  meaning."  And  Barrett 
Wendell,  in  A  Literary  History  of  America — a  volume  that 
modestly  limits  American  literature  of  much  value  not  only  to 
New  England,  but  even  tucks  it  neatly  into  the  confines  of 
Harvard  College — notes  with  jaunty  patronage :  "Herman 
Melville  with  his  books  about  the  South  Seas,  which  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  is  said  to  have  declared  the  best  ever  written, 
and  his  novels  of  maritime  adventure,  began  a  career  of  lit 
erary  promise,  which  never  came  to  fruition." 

These  typical  pronouncements,  unperverted  by  the  remotest 
touch  of  independent  judgment,  transcend  Melville's  worst 


DEVIL'S  ADVOCATE  21 

fears.  "Think  of  it !"  he  once  wrote  to  Hawthorne.  "To  go 
down  to  posterity  is  bad  enough,  any  way;  but  to  go  down  as  a 
'man  who  lived  among  the  cannibals!'  When  I  think  of  pos 
terity  in  reference  to  myself,  I  mean  only  the  babes  who  will 
probably  be  born  in  the  moment  immediately  ensuing  upon  my 
giving  up  the  ghost.  I  shall  go  down  to  them,  in  all  likelihood. 
Typee  will  be  given  to  them,  perhaps,  with  their  gingerbread." 
In  that  mythical  anomaly  known  as  the  "popular  mind,"  Mel 
ville  has,  indeed,  survived  as  an  obscure  adventurer  in  strange 
seas  and  among  amiable  barbarians.  Typee  and  Omoo  have 
lived  on  as  minor  classics.  Though  there  have  been  staccato 
and  sporadic  attacks  upon  the  ludicrous  inadequacy  of  the 
popular  judgment  upon  Melville,  not  until  recently,  and  then 
chiefly  in  England  has  there  been  any  popular  and  concerted 
attempt  to  take  Melville's  truer  and  more  heroic  dimensions. 
An  editorial  in  the  London  Nation  for  January  22,  1921,  thus 
bespeaks  the  changing  temper  of  the  times : 

"It  is  clear  that  the  wind  of  the  spirit,  when  it  once  begins 
to  blow  through  the  English  literary  mind,  possesses  a  surpris 
ing  power  of  penetration.  A  few  weeks  ago  it  was  pleased  to 
aim  a  simultaneous  blast  in  the  direction  of  a  book  known  to 
some  generations  of  men  as  Moby-Dick.  A  member  of  the 
staff  of  The  Nation  was  thereupon  moved  in  the  ancient  He 
brew  fashion  to  buy  and  to  read  it.  He  then  expressed  him 
self  on  the  subject,  incoherently  indeed,  but  with  signs  of 
emotion  as  intense  and  as  pleasingly  uncouth  as  Man  Friday 
betrayed  at  the  sight  of  his  long-lost  father.  While  struggling 
with  his  article,  and  wondering  what  the  deuce  it  could  mean, 
I  received  a  letter  from  a  famous  literary  man,  marked  on 
the  outside  'Urgent/  and  on  the  inner  scroll  of  the  manuscript 
itself  'A  Rhapsody.'  It  was  about  Moby-Dick.  Having  ob 
served  a  third  article  on  the  same  subject,  of  an  equally  febrile 
kind,  I  began  to  read  Moby-Dick  myself.  Having  done  so  I 
hereby  declare,  being  of  sane  intellect,  that  since  letters  began 
there  never  was  such  a  book,  and  that  the  mind  of  man  is  not 
constructed  so  as  to  produce  such  another ;  that  I  put  its  author 
with  Rabelais,  Swift,  Shakespeare,  and  other  minor  and  dis 
putable  worthies ;  and  that  I  advise  any  adventurer  of  the  soul 


22  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

to  go  at  once  to  the  morose  and  prolonged  retreat  necessary 
for  its  deglutition." 

Having  earlier  been  hailed  in  France  as  an  "American  Rabe 
lais;"  prized  in  England  by  the  author  of  The  City  of  Dread 
ful  Night;  greeted  by  Stevenson  with  slangy  enthusiasm  as  a 
"howling  cheese;"  rated  by  Mr.  Masefield  as  unique  among 
writers  of  the  sea;  the  professed  inspirer  of  Captain  Hook  of 
Sir  James  Barrie's  Peter  Pan,  Melville  is  beginning  to  appear 
as  being  vastly  more  than  merely  a  "man  who  lived  among  the 
cannibals"  and  who  returned  home  to  write  lively  sea  stories 
for  boys. 

The  wholesale  neglect  of  Melville  at  the  hands  of  his  coun 
trymen — though  explained  in  some  part  as  a  consummation  of 
Melville's  best  efforts — has  not  been  merely  unintelligent,  but 
thoroughly  discreditable.  For  Melville,  from  any  point  of 
view,  is  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  our  writers,  and  there 
is  something  ludicrous  in  being  before  all  the  world — as,  as 
suredly,  we  sometimes  are — in  recognising  our  own  merit 
where  it  is  contestable,  and  in  neglecting  it  where  it  is  not. 

It  has  been  our  tradition  to  cherish  our  literature  for  its 
embodiment  of  Queen  Victoria's  fireside  qualities.  The  re 
pudiation  of  this  tradition — as  a  part  of  our  repudiation  of 
all  tradition — has  made  fashionable  a  wholesale  contempt  for 
our  native  product.  "I  can't  read  Longfellow"  is  frequently 
remarked;  "he's  so  subtle!"  Our  critical  estimates  have  la 
boured  under  the  incubus  of  New  England  provincialism:  a 
provincialism  preserved  in  miniature  in  the  first  pages  of 
Lowell's  essay  on  Thoreau.  At  present  we  need  to  have  the 
eminence  of  the  section  recalled  to  us;  but  during  the  period  of 
Melville's  productivity,  it  was  at  its  apex,  and  in  its  bosom  Mel 
ville  wrote.  This  man,  whose  closest  literary  affinities  were 
Rabelais,  Zola,  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  Rousseau,  Meredith,  and 
Dr.  John  Donne, — a  combination  to  make  the  unitiated  blink 
with  incredulity — was  indebted  to  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  for 
the  best  makeshift  for  companionship  he  was  ever  to  know: 
one  of  the  most  subtly  ironical  associations  the  imps  of  comedy 
ever  brought  about.  Nor  was  the  comedy  lessened  by  Mrs. 
Hawthorne's  presence  upon  the  scene.  Shrewd  was  her  in- 


DEVIL'S  ADVOCATE  23 

stinctive  resentment  of  her  husband's  friend.  Viewed  by  his 
neighbours  "as  little  better  than  a  cannibal  and  a  'beach 
comber'  " — such  was  the  report  of  the  late  Titus  Munson  Coan 
in  a  letter  to  his  mother  written  immediately  after  a  pilgrim 
age  to  Melville  in  the  Berkshires — Melville  turned  to  Haw 
thorne  for  understanding.  Frank  Preston  Stearns,  in  his  Life 
and  Genius  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1906)  says  that  for 
Hawthorne  "the  summer  of  1851  in  Lenox  was  by  no  means 
brilliant.  .  .  .  Hawthorne's  chief  entertainment  seems  to  have 
been  the  congratulatory  letters  he  received  from  distinguished 
people.  .  .  .  For  older  company  he  had  Herman  Melville  and 
G.  P.  R.  James,  whose  society  he  may  have  found  as  interest 
ing  as  that  of  more  distinguished  writers."  But  Mrs.  Haw 
thorne  had  studied  Melville  with  a  closer  scrutiny  and  was  not 
so  easily  convinced  of  Melville's  insignificance.  Melville  had 
visited  the  Hawthornes  in  the  tiny  reception  room  of  the  Red 
House,  where  Mrs.  Hawthorne  "sewed  at  her  stand  and  read 
to  the  children  about  Christ;"  in  the  drawing  room,  where 
she  disposed  "the  embroidered  furniture,"  and  where,  in  the 
farther  corner,  stood  "Apollo  with  his  head  tied  on ;"  in  Haw 
thorne's  study,  which  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  wifely  adoration 
was  consecrated  by  "his  presence  in  the  morning."  Mrs.  Haw 
thorne  looked  from  the  "wonderful,  wonderful  eyes"  of  her 
husband — each  eye  "like  a  violet  with  a  soul  in  it," — to  Mel 
ville's  eyes,  and  confessed  to  her  mother  her  grave  and  jealous 
suspicion  of  Melville :  "I  am  not  quite  sure  that  /  do  not  think 
him  a  very  great  man.  ...  A  man  with  a  true,  warm  heart, 
and  a  soul  and  an  intellect, — with  life  to  his  finger-tips;  earn 
est,  sincere  and  reverent;  very  tender  and  modest.  ...  He 
has  very  keen  perceptive  power;  but  what  astonishes  me  is, 
that  his  eyes  are  not  large  and  deep.  He  seems  to  see  every 
thing  very  accurately;  and  how  he  can  do  so  with  his  small 
eyes,  I  cannot  tell.  They  are  not  keen  eyes,  either,  but  quite 
undistinguished  in  any  way.  His  nose  is  straight  and  rather 
handsome,  his  mouth  expressive  of  sensibility  and  emotion. 
He  is  tall,  and  erect,  with  an  air  free,  brave  and  manly.  When 
conversing,  he  is  full  of  gesture  and  force,  and  loses  himself 
in  his  subject.  There  is  no  grace  nor  polish.  Once  in  a 


24  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

while,  his  animation  gives  place  to  a  singularly  quiet  ex 
pression,  out  of  these  eyes  to  which  I  have  objected;  an  in 
drawn,  dim  look,  but  which  at  the  same  time  makes  you  feel 
that  he  is  at  that  moment  taking  deepest  note  of  what  is  before 
him.  It  is  a  strange,  lazy  glance,  but  with  a  power  in  it  quite 
unique.  It  does  not  seem  to  penetrate  through  you,  but  to  take 
you  into  itself.  I  saw  him  look  at  Una  so,  yesterday,  several 


times." 


Mrs.  Hawthorne  must  ever  enjoy  a  lofty  eminence  as  one  of 
Melville's  most  penetrating  critics.  Her  husband  dwelt  apart, 
and  less  because  he  found  the  atmosphere  of  New  England 
wholly  uncongenial  than  because  he  shared  his  wife's  convic 
tion  that  he  was  like  a  star.  And  shrewdly  his  wife  resented 
the  presence  of  a  second  luminary — treacherously  veiled  and 
of  heaven  knows  what  magnitude ! — in  her  serene  New  Eng 
land  sky.  Time  may  yet  harp  her  worst  fears  aright. 

For  despite  his  comparative  obscurity,  Melville  is — as  can 
not  be  too  frequently  iterated — one  of  the  chief  and  most  un 
usual  figures  in  our  native  literature.  And  his  claim  to  such 
high  distinction  must  rest  upon  three  prime  counts. 

First — because  most  obvious — Melville  was  the  literary  dis 
coverer  of  the  South  Seas.  And  though  his  ample  and  rapidly 
multiplying  progeny  includes  such  names  as  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  John  La  Farge,  Jack 
London,  Louis  Becke,  A.  Safroni-Middleton,  Somerset  Maug 
ham,  and  Frederick  O'Brien,  he  is  still  unsurpassed  in  the 
manner  he  originated.  On  this  point,  all  competent  critics 
are  agreed. 

Melville's  second  achievement  is  most  adequately  stated  by 
the  well-known  English  sea-writer,  W.  Clark  Russell,  in  A 
Claim  of  American  Literature  (reprinted  from  The  North 
American  Review  in  The  Critic  for  March  26,  1892).  "When 
Richard  Henry  Dana,  and  Herman  Melville  wrote,"  says  Rus 
sell,  "the  commercial  sailor  of  Great  Britain  and  the  United 
States  wras  without  representation  in  literature.  .  .  .  Dana 
and  Melville  were  Americans.  They  were  the  first  to  lift  the 
hatch  and  show  the  world  what  passes  in  a  ship's  forecastle ; 
how  men  live  down  in  that  gloomy  cave,  how  and  what  they 


DEVIL'S  ADVOCATE  25 

eat,  and  where  they  sleep ;  what  pleasures  they  take,  what  their 
sorrows  and  wrongs  are;  how  they  are  used  when  they  quit 
their  black  sea-parlours  in  response  to  the  boatswain's  silver 
summons  to  work  on  deck  by  day  and  by  night.  These  secrets 
of  the  deep  Dana  and  Melville  disclosed.  .  .  .  Dana  and  Mel 
ville  created  a  new  world,  not  by  the  discovery,  but  by  the  in 
terpretation  of  it.  They  gave  us  a  full  view  of  the  life  led  by 
tens  of  thousands  of  men  whose  very  existence,  till  these 
wizards  arose,  had  been  as  vague  to  the  general  land  intelli 
gence  as  the  shadows  of  clouds  moving  under  the  brightness 
of  the  stars."  And  to  Melville  and  Dana,  so  Russell  contends, 
we  owe  "the  first,  the  best  and  most  enduring  revelation  of 
these  secrets."  On  this  score,  Conrad,  Kipling,  and  Masefield 
must  own  Melville  as  master. 

Melville's  third  and  supreme  claim  to  distinction  rests  upon 
a  single  volume,  which,  after  the  order  of  Melchizedek,  is 
without  issue  and  without  descent :  "a  work  which  is  not  only 
unique  in  its  kind,  and  a  great  achievement"  to  quote  a  recent 
judgment  from  England,  "but  is  the  expression  of  an  imagina 
tion  that  rises  to  the  highest,  and  so  is  amongst  the  world's 
great  works  of  art."  This  book  is,  of  course,  Moby-Dick, 
Melville's  undoubted  masterpiece.  "In  that  wild,  beautiful  ro 
mance" — the  words  are  Mr.  Masefield/s— "Melville  seems  to 
have  spoken  the  very  secret  of  the  sea,  and  to  have  drawn  into 
his  tale  all  the  magic,  all  the  sadness,  all  the  wild  joy  of  many 
waters.  It  stands  quite  alone;  quite  unlike  any  other  book 
known  to  me.  It  strikes  a  note  which  no  other  sea  writer  has 
ever  struck." 

The  organising  theme  of  this  unparalleled  volume  is  the 
hunt  by  the  mad  Captain  Ahab  after  the  great  white  whale 
which  had  dismembered  him  of  his  leg;  of  Captain  Ahab's  un 
wearied  pursuit  by  rumour  of  its  whereabouts;  of  the  final 
destruction  of  himself  and  his  ship  by  its  savage  onslaught. 
On  the  white  hump  of  the  ancient  and  vindictive  monster  Cap 
tain  Ahab  piles  the  sum  of  all  the  rage  and  hate  of  mankind 
from  the  days  of  'Eden  down. 

Melville  expresses  an  ironical  fear  lest  his  book  be  scouted 
"as  a  monstrous  fable,  or  still  worse  and  more  detestable,  a 


26  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

hideous  and  intolerable  allegory."  Yet  fabulous  allegory  it  is : 
an  allegory  of  the  demonism  at  the  cankered  heart  of  nature, 
teaching  that  "though  in  many  of  its  visible  aspects  the  world 
seems  formed  in  love,  the  invisible  spheres  were  formed  in 
fright."  Thou  shalt  know  the  truth,  and  the  truth  shall  make 
you  mad.  To  the  eye  of  truth,  so  Melville  would  convince  us, 
"the  palsied  universe  lies  before  us  as  a  leper;"  "all  deified 
Nature  absolutely  paints  like  a  harlot,  whose  allurements  cover 
nothing  but  the  charnal  house  within."  To  embody  this  devas 
tating  insight,  Melville  chooses  as  a  symbol,  an  albino  whale. 
"Wonder  ye  then  at  the  fiery  hunt?" 

An  artist  who  goes  out  to  find  sermons  in  stones  does  so  at 
the  peril  of  converting  his  stone  pile  into  his  mausoleum.  His 
danger  is  excessive,  if,  having  his  sermons  all  ready,  he  makes 
it  his  task  to  find  the  stones  to  fit  them.  Allegory  justifies  it 
self  only  when  the  fiction  is  the  fact  and  the  moral  the  induc 
tion;  only  when  its  representation  is  as  imaginatively  real  as 
its  meaning ;  only  when  the  stones  are  interesting  boulders  in  a 
rich  and  diversified  landscape.  So  broadly  and  vividly  is 
Moby-Dick  based  on  solid  foundation  that  even  the  most  lit 
eral-minded,  innocent  of  Melville's  dark  intent,  have  found 
this  book  of  the  soul's  daring  and  the  soul's  dread  a  very 
worthy  volume.  One  spokesman  for  this  congregation,  while 
admitting  that  "a  certain  absorption  of  interest  lies  in  the  night 
mare  intensity  and  melodramatic  climax  of  the  tale,"  finds  his 
interest  captured  and  held  far  more  by  "the  exposition  of  fact 
with  which  the  story  is  loaded  to  the  very  gunwale.  No  living 
thing  on  earth  or  in  the  waters  under  the  earth  is  so  interesting 
as  the  whale.  How  it  is  pursued,  from  the  Arctic  to  the  Ant 
arctic;  how  it  is  harpooned,  to  the  peril  of  boat  and  crew;  how, 
when  brought  to  the  side,  'cutting  in'  is  accomplished ;  how  the 
whale's  anatomy  is  laid  bare;  how  his  fat  is  redeemed — to  be 
told  this  in  the  form  of  a  narrative,  with  all  manner  of  dra 
matic  but  perfectly  plausible  incidents  interspersed,  is  enough 
to  make  the  book  completely  engrossing  without  the  white 
whale  and  Captain  Ahab's  fatal  monomania." 

So  diverse  are  the  samples  out  of  which  Moby-Dick  is  com 
pounded,  yet  so  masterful  is  each  of  its  samples,  that  there  is 


DEVIL'S  ADVOCATE  27 

still  far  from  universal  agreement  as  to  the  ground  colour  of 
this  rich  and  towering  fabric.  Yet  by  this  very  disagreement 
is  its  miraculous  artistry  affirmed. 

In  Moby-Dick,  all  the  powers  and  tastes  of  Melville's  com 
plex  genius  are  blended.  Moby-Dick  is  at  once  indisputably 
the  greatest  whaling  novel,  and  "a  hideous  and  intolerable  al 
legory."  As  Mr.  Frank  Jewett  Mather,  Jr.  has  said,  "Out 
of  the  mere  episodes  and  minor  instances  of  Moby-Dick,  a 
literary  reputation  might  be  made.  The  retired  Nantucket 
captains  Bildad  and  Peleg  might  have  stepped  out  of  Smollett. 
Father  Mapple's  sermon  on  the  book  of  Jonah  is  in  itself  a 
masterpiece,  and  I  know  few  sea  tales  that  can  hold  their  own 
with  the  blood  feud  of  Mate  Rodney  and  sailor  Steelkilt." 
Captain  Hook  of  Peter  Pan  is  but  Captain  Boomer  of  Moby- 
Dick  with  another  name :  and  this  an  identity  founded  not  on 
surmise,  but  on  Sir  James  Barrie's  professed  indebtedness  to 
Melville.  There  are,  in  Moby-Dick,  long  digressions,  natural, 
historical  and  philosophical,  on  the  person,  habits,  manners 
and  ideas  of  whales;  there  are  long  dialogues  and  soliloquies 
such  as  were  never  spoken  by  mortal  man  in  his  waking  senses, 
conversations  that  for  sweetness,  strength  and  courage  remind 
one  of  passages  from  Dekker,  Webster,  Massinger,  Fletcher 
and  the  other  old  dramatists  loved  both  by  Melville  and  by 
Charles  Lamb;  in  the  discursive  tradition  of  Fielding,  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  and  the  anatomist  of  melancholy,  Melville  in 
dulges  freely  in  independent  moralisings,  half  essay,  half  rhap 
sody;  withal,  scenes  like  Ishmael's  experience  at  the  "Spouter- 
Inn"  with  a  practising  cannibal  for  bed-fellow,  are,  for 
finished  humour,  among  the  most  competent  in  the  language. 
When  Melville  sat  down  to  write,  always  at  his  knee  stood 
that  chosen  emissary  of  Satan,  the  comic  spirit:  a  demoniac 
familiar  never  long  absent  from  his  pages. 

There  are  those,  of  course,  who  would  hold  against  Dante 
his  moralising,  and  against  Rabelais  his  broad  humour.  In 
like  manner,  peculiarity  of  temperament  has  necessarily  col 
oured  critical  judgment  of  Moby-Dick.  But  though  critics 
may  mouth  it  as  they  like  about  digressions,  improbability, 
moralising  reflections,  swollen  talk,  or  the  fetish  of  art  now 


28  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

venerated  with  such  articulate  inveteracy,  all  wonderfully 
agree  upon  the  elementary  force  of  Moby-Dick,  its  vitality, 
its  thrilling  power.  That  it  achieves  the  effect  of  illusion, 
and  to  a  degree  peculiar  to  the  highest  feats  of  the  creative 
imagination,  is  incontestable.  No  writer  has  more.  On  this 
point  it  is  simply  impossible  to  praise  Melville  too  highly. 
What  defects  Moby-Dick  has  are  formal  rather  than  substan 
tial.  As  Thackeray  once  impatiently  said  of  Macaulay :  "What 
critic  can't  point  them  out?"  It  was  the  contention  of  James 
Thomson  that  an  overweening  concern  for  formal  impeccabil 
ity  is  a  fatal  sign  of  weakened  vitality.  Intensity  of  imag 
ination — and  Melville  exhibited  it  prodigally  in  Moby-Dick — 
is  an  infinitely  rarer  and  more  precious  gift  than  technical  so 
phistication.  Shakespeare  has  survived,  despite  his  "monstrous 
irregularities."  But  since  Shakespeare,  as  Francis  Thompson 
has  observed,  there  has  been  a  gradual  decline  from  imperfec 
tion.  Milton,  at  his  most  typical,  was  far  too  perfect;  Pope 
was  ruined  by  his  quest  for  the  quality.  No  thoughtful  per 
son  can  contemplate  without  alarm  the  idolatry  bestowed  upon 
this  quality  by  the  contemporary  mind :  an  idolatry  that  threat 
ens  to  reduce  all  art  to  the  extinction  of  unendurable  excel 
lence.  How  insipid  would  be  the  mere  adventures  of  a  Don 
Quixote  recounted  by  a  Stevenson. 

The  astonishing  variety  of  contradictory  qualities  synthe- 
sised  in  Moby-Dick  exists  nowhere  else  in  literature,  perhaps, 
in  such  paradoxical  harmony.  These  qualities,  in  differences 
of  combination  and  emphasis,  are  discoverable,  however,  in  all 
of  Melville's  writings.  And  he  published,  besides  anonymous 
contributions  to  periodicals,  ten  novels  and  five  volumes  of 
poetry  (including  the  two  volumes  privately  printed  at  the 
very  close  of  his  life).  There  survives,  too,  a  bulk  of  manu 
script  material:  a  novel,  short  stones,  and  a  body  of  verse. 
And  branded  on  everything  that  Melville  wrote  is  there  the 
mark  of  the  extraordinary  personality  that  created  Moby-Dick. 

Though  some  of  Melville's  writing  is  distinctly  disquieting 
in  devastating  insight,  and  much  of  it  is  very  uneven  in  in 
spiration,  none  of  it  is  undistinguished.  Yet  only  four  of  his 
books  have  ever  been  reprinted.  The  rest  of  his  work,  long 


DEVIL'S  ADVOCATE  29 

since  out  of  print,  is  excessively  rare,  some  of  it  being  prac 
tically  unavailable.  The  scarcity  of  a  book,  however,  is  not 
invariably  a  sign  of  its  insignificance.  It  is  one  of  the  least 
accessible  of  Melville's  books  that  Mr.  Masefield  singles  out 
for  especial  distinction.  "The  book  I  love  best  of  his,"  says 
Mr.  Masefield,  "is  one  very  difficult  to  come  by.  I  think  it  is 
his  first  romance,  and  I  believe  it  has  never  been  reprinted 
here.  It  is  the  romance  of  his  own  boyhood.  I  mean  Red- 
burn.  Any  number  of  good  pens  will  praise  the  known  books, 
Typee  and  Omoo  and  Moby-Dick  and  White-Jacket,  and  will 
tell  their  qualities  of  beauty  and  romance.  Perhaps  Redburn 
will  have  fewer  praises,  so  here  goes  for  Redburn;  a  boy's  book 
about  running  away  to  sea."  Even  more  difficult  of  access  is 
Pierre — a  book  at  the  antipodes  from  Redburn.  Far  from  be 
ing  a  boy's  book,  Pierre  was  prophetic  of  the  pessimism  of 
Hardy  and  the  subtlety  of  Meredith.  From  Redburn  to 
Pierre;  from  Typee,  a  spirited  travel-book  on  Polynesia,  to 
Clarcl,  an  intricate  philosophical  poem  in  two  volumes :  these 
mark  the  antithetical  extremes  of  the  art  that  mated  poetry 
and  blubber,  whaling  and  metaphysics.  The  very  complexity 
and  versatility  of  Melville's  achievement  has  been  an  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  his  just  appreciation.  Had  Mandeville  turned 
from  his  Travels,  to  write  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night,  the 
incompatibility  would  have  been  no  less  extraordinary  or  be 
wildering. 

Indeed,  Melville's  complete  works,  in  their  final  analysis,  are 
a  long  effort  towards  the  creation  of  one  of  the  most  complex, 
and  massive,  and  original  characters  in  literature :  the  charac 
ter  known  in  life  as  Herman  Melville.  "I  am  like  one  of  those 
seeds  taken  out  of  the  Egyptian  Pyramids,"  he  wrote  to  Haw 
thorne  while  he  was  in  the  middle  of  Moby-Dick,  "which, 
after  being  three  thousand  years  a  seed  and  nothing  but  a  seed, 
being  planted  in  English  soil,  it  developed  itself,  grew  to  green 
ness,  and  then  fell  to  mould.  So  I.  Until  I  was  twenty-five,  I 
had  no  development  at  all.  From  my  twenty-fifth  year  I  date 
my  life.  But  I  feel  that  I  am  now  come  to  the  inmost  leaf  of 
the  bulb,  and  that  shortly  the  flower  must  fall  to  the  mould. 
It  seems  to  me  now  that  Solomon  was  the  truest  man  who 


30  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ever  spoke,  and  yet  that  he  managed  the  truth  with  a  view  to 
popular  conservatism." 

Blighted  by  disillusionment,  and  paralysed  by  doubt,  Mel 
ville  came  to  treat  as  an  irrelevancy,  the  making  of  books. 
"He  informed  me  that  he  had  'pretty  much  made  up  his  mind 
to  be  annihilated,'  "  wrote  Hawthorne  in  his  Note-book,  after 
Melville  visited  him  in  Southport,  England,  in  1856;  "but 
still  he  does  not  seem  to  rest  in  that  anticipation.  It  is  strange 
how  he  persists — as  he  has  persisted  ever  since  I  knew  him, 
and  probably  long  before — in  wandering  to  and  fro  over  these 
deserts,  as  dismal  and  monotonous  as  the  sandhills  amidst 
which  we  were  sitting.  He  can  neither  believe  nor  be  com 
fortable  in  his  unbelief;  and  he  is  too  honest  and  courageous 
not  to  try  to  do  one  or  the  other."  If,  in  contempt  for  the 
orthodox  interpolations  by  which  pious  scribes  attempted  to 
sweeten  Solomon's  bitter  message,  Melville  ever  managed 
truth  as  he  saw  it,  it  was  more  to  violate  popular  conservatism 
than  to  propitiate  it.  "We  incline  to  think  that  God  cannot 
explain  His  own  secrets/'  he  editorially  wrote  Hawthorne  in 
1851,  "and  that  He  would  like  a  little  information  upon  cer 
tain  points  Himself.  We  mortals  astonish  Him  as  much  as 
He  us."  And  as  Melville  grew  in  disillusionment,  he  grew  in 
astonishment.  In  his  relentless  pessimism  he  boasted  himself 
"in  the  happy  condition  of  judicious,  unencumbered  travellers 
in  Europe;  they  cross  the  frontiers  into  Eternity  with  nothing 
but  a  carpet  bag, — that  is  to  say,  the  Ego."  It  was  his  ripest 
conviction  that  the  exclamation  point  and  the  triumphant  per 
pendicular  pronoun  were  interchangeable  signs.  But  to  the 
end,  he  bristled  with  minor  revelations. 

Though  he  boasted  that  he  crossed  the  frontier  into  Eternity 
with  nothing  but  a  carpet  bag,  he  had,  in  fact,  sent  more  bulky 
consignments  on  ahead.  And  at  the  final  crack  of  doom,  this 
dead  and  disappointed  mariner  may  yet  rise  to  an  unexpected 
rejoicing.  For  at  that  time  of  ultimate  reckoning,  according 
to  the  eschatology  of  Mr.  Masefield,  "then  the  great  white 
whale,  old  Moby-Dick,  the  king  of  all  the  whales,  will  rise  up 
irom  his  quiet  in  the  sea,  and  go  bellowing  to  his  mates.  And 
all  the  whales  in  the  world — the  sperm-whales,  the  razor-back, 


DEVIL'S  ADVOCATE  31 

the  black-fish,  the  rorque,  the  right,  the  forty-barrel  Jonah,  the 
narwhal,  the  hump-back,  the  grampus  and  the  thrasher — will 
come  to  him,  'fin-out/  blowing  their  spray  to  the  heavens. 
Then  Moby-Dick  will  call  the  roll  of  them,  and  from  all  the 
parts  of  the  sea,  from  the  north,  from  the  south,  from  Callao 
to  Rio,  not  one  whale  will  be  missing.  Then  Moby-Dick  will 
trumpet,  like  a  man  blowing  a  horn,  and  all  that  company  of 
whales  will  'sound'  (that  is,  dive),  for  it  is  they  that  have  the 
job  of  raising  the  wrecks  from  down  below. 

"Then  when  they  come  up  the  sun  will  just  be  setting  in  the 
sea,  far  away  to  the  west,  like  a  ball  of  red  fire.  And  just  as 
the  curve  of  it  goes  below  the  sea,  it  will  stop  sinking  and  lie 
there  like  a  door.  And  the  stars  and  the  earth  and  the  wind 
will  stop.  And  there  will  be  nothing  but  the  sea,  and  this  red 
arch  of  the  sun,  and  the  whales  with  the  wrecks,  and  a  stream 
of  light  upon  the  water.  Each  whale  will  have  raised  a  wreck 
from  among  the  coral,  and  the  sea  will  be  thick  with  them— 
row-ships  anji  sail-ships,  and  great  big  seventy-fours,  and  big 
White  Star  boats,  and  battleships,  all  of  them  green  with  the 
ooze,  but  all  of  them  manned  by  singing  sailors.  And  ahead 
of  them  will  go  Moby-Dick,  towing  the  ship  our  Lord  was  in, 
with  all  the  sweet  apostles  aboard  of  her.  And  Moby-Dick 
will  give  a  great  bellow,  like  a  fog-horn  blowing,  and  stretch 
'fin-out'  for  the  sun  away  in  the  west.  And  all  the  whales 
will  bellow  out  an  answer.  And  all  the  drowned  sailors  will 
sing  their  chanties,  and  beat  the  bells  into  a  music.  And  the 
whole  fleet  of  them  will  start  towing  at  full  speed  towards  the 
sun,  at  the  edge  of  the  sky  and  water.  I  tell  you  they  will  make 
white  water,  those  ships  and  fishes. 

"When  they  have  got  to  where  the  sun  is,  the  red  ball  will 
swing  open  like  a  door,  and  Moby-Dick,  and  all  the  whales, 
and  all  the  ships  will  rush  through  it  into  an  anchorage  in 
Kingdom  Come.  It  will  be  a  great  calm  piece  of  water,  with 
land  close  aboard,  where  all  the  ships  of  the  world  will  lie  at 
anchor,  tier  upon  tier,  with  the  hands  gathered  forward,  sing 
ing.  They'll  have  no  watches  to  stand,  no  ropes  to  coil,  no 
mates  to  knock  their  heads  in.  Nothing  will  be  to  do  except 
singing  and  beating  on  the  bell.  And  all  the  poor  sailors  who 


32  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

went  in  patched  rags,  my  son,  they'll  be  all  fine  in  white  and 
gold.  And  ashore,  among  the  palm-trees,  there'll  be  fine  inns 
for  the  seamen."  And  there,  among  a  numerous  company,  will 
be  Fayaway,  and  Captain  Ahab,  and  Jack  Chase,  and  Jarl,  and 
Toby,  and  Pierre,  and  Father  Mapple,  and  Jackson,  and  Doc 
tor  Long  Ghost,  and  Kory-Kory,  and  Bildad,  and  Peleg,  and 
Fedallah,  and  Tashetego,  and  Marnoo,  and  Queequeg.  But  it 
seems  hardly  likely  that  Melville  will  there  find  Hawthorne 
to  tempt  by  a  basket  of  champagne  into  some  little  shady  cor 
ner,  there  to  cross  their  legs  in  the  celestial  grass  that  is  for 
ever  tropical,  and  to  discourse  pleasantly  of  all  the  things  mani 
fold  which  once  so  much  distressed  them.  In  my  Fathers 
house  are  many  mansions. 


CHAPTER  II 

GHOSTS 

"We  are  full  of  ghosts  and  spirits;  we  are  as  grave-yards  full  of 
buried  dead,  that  start  to  life  before  us.  And  all  our  dead  sires,  verily, 
are  in  us;  that  is  their  immortality.  From  sire  to  son,  we  go  on  multi 
plying  corpses  in  ourselves;  for  all  of  which,  are  resurrections.  Every 
thought's  a  soul  of  some  past  poet,  hero,  sage.  We  are  fuller  than  a 
city."  — HERMAN  MELVILLE:  Mardi. 

THE  High  Gods,  in  a  playful  and  prodigal  mood,  gave  to 
Melville,  to  Julia  Ward  Howe,  to  Lowell,  to  Kingsley,  to  Rus- 
kin,  to  Whitman,  and  to  Queen  Victoria,  the  same  birth  year. 
On  August  i,  1819,  Herman  Melville  was  born  at  No.  6  Pearl 
Street,  New  York  City. 

Melville's  vagabondage  as  a  common  sailor  on  a  merchant 
man,  on  whaling  vessels,  and  in  the  United  States  Navy,  to 
gether  with  his  Bohemian  associations  with  cannibals,  muti 
neers,  and  some  of  the  choicest  dregs  of  our  Christian  civilisa 
tion,  must  have  wrenched  a  chorus  of  groans  from  a  large  con 
gregation  of  shocked  ancestral  ghosts.  For  Melville  was  de 
scended  from  a  long  and  prolific  line  of  the  best  American 
stock.  Through  his  mother,  Maria  Gansevoort,  he  traced  back 
to  the  earliest  Dutch  emigrants  to  New  York;  through  his 
father,  Allan  Melville,  to  pre-revolutionary  Scotch-Irish  emi 
grants  to  New  England.  Both  of  his  grandfathers  distin 
guished  themselves  in  the  Revolutionary  War.  His  ancestors, 
on  both  sides,  came  to  this  country  in  the  days  when  some 
of  the  best  blood  of  Europe  was  being  transferred  to 
America. 

Though  Melville  was  too  ironic  a  genius  ever  to  have  been 
guilty  of  the  ill-breeding  that  makes  an  ostentation  of  ancestry, 
still  he  looked  back  upon  his  descent  with  self-conscious  pride : 
a  pride  drawn  by  childhood  absorption  from  his  parents  who, 
by  resting  on  the  achievements  of  their  forebears,  added  sev 
eral  cubits  to  their  stature.  Lacking  the  prophetic  vision  to 

33 


34  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

glory  in  being  ancestors,  they  chose  the  more  comfortable  role 
of  parading  as  descendants.  Melville's  father,  Allan,  was  suf 
ficiently  absorbed  in  his  genealogy  to  compile,  in  1818,  an  elab 
orately  branching  family  tree  that  sent  its  master  root  back  to 
one  Sir  Richard  de  Melvill,  del  Compte  de  Fife,  a  worthy  of 
the  thirteenth  century.  And  at  the  proud  conclusion  of  his 
labours  he  inscribed  the  Melville  motto,  Denique  Coelum  — 
"Heaven  at  last."  Melville's  mother,  Maria  Gansevoort, 
though  too  absorbed  in  domesticity  to  compete  with  Allan  in 
drawing  up  a  parallel  document,  still  sat  opposite  her  spouse 
with  a  stiff  spine,  conscious  that  she  could  counter  his  ancestry, 
grandfather  for  grandfather.  It  is  true,  she  had  no  thirteenth 
century  count  to  fall  back  upon;  and  though  her  line  lost  itself 
in  a  cluster  of  breweries,  they  were  very  substantial  breweries, 
and  owned  by  a  race  of  stalwart  and  affluent  and  uncompromis 
ing  burghers.  Her  ancestor,  Harmen  Harmense  Van  Ganse 
voort,  was  brewing  in  Beverwyck  as  early  as  1660,  and  with 
sufficient  success  to  acquire  such  extended  investments  in  land 
that  he  bequeathed  to  his  heirs  a  baronial  inheritance.  Dur 
ing  the  centuries  following  his  death  his  name  crossed  itself 
with  that  of  the  Van  Rensselaers,  the  Ten  Brocks,  the  Douws, 
the  Van  Schaicks, — with  the  proudest  names  that  descended 
from  the  earlier  Colonial  Dutch  families.  Melville's  mother, 
Maria,  is  remembered  as  a  cold,  proud  woman,  arrogant  in 
the  sense  of  her  name,  her  blood,  and  the  affluence  of  her 
forebears. 

She  was  the  only  daughter  and  oldest  child  in  a  family  of 
six,  of  General  Peter  Gansevoort  and  Catharine  Van  Schaick. 
Her  father,  born  in  Albany,  New  York,  July  17,  1749,  was 
among  the  outstanding  patriots  of  the  American  Revolution. 
He  was  among  the  troops  which  accompanied  Schuyler,  in 
1775,  in  his  advance  towards  Canada.  In  December  of  the 
same  year  he  was  with  Montgomery,  as  Major,  in  the  unfortu 
nate  assault  upon  Quebec.  In  the  summer  of  1777,  when  Bur- 
goyne's  semi-barbarous  invading  army  was  slowly  advancing 
down  Lake  Champlain  and  the  Hudson,  he  was  Colonel  in 
command  of  Fort  Stanwix.  By  his  obstinate  and  gallant  de 
fence  of  Fort  Stanwix  in  August,  1777,  he  prevented  the  June- 


GHOSTS  35 

ture  of  St.  Leger  with  Burgoyne,  and  so  changed  the  course 
of  the  whole  subsequent  campaign.  Washington  keenly  and 
warmly  recognised  this,  and  Congress  passed  a  vote  of  thanks 
to  Colonel  Gansevoort.  Peter  Gansevoort  did  other  brilliant 
service  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  in  1809,  when  the  War 
of  1812  was  approaching,  he  was  made  brigadier  general  in 
the  United  States  army.  He  was  sheriff  of  Albany  County 
from  1790  to  1792,  and  regent  of  the  University  of  New  York 
from  1808  until  his  death  in  1812. 

Of  his  sons,  Hon.  Peter  Gansevoort,  who  was  born  in  Al 
bany  in  1789,  was  long  one  of  the  most  prominent  and  hon 
oured  citizens  of  Albany.  The  elder  son,  General  Herman 
Gansevoort,  from  whom  Melville  received  his  name,  lived  at 
Gansevoort,  a  village  in  the  township  of  Northumberland, 
Saratoga  County,  New  York.  In  1832-33,  the  brothers  built 
on  the  site  of  the  birthplace  of  their  father  what  is  now  the 
Stanwix  Hotel.  As  a  boy,  Melville  spent  most  of  his  summers 
as  guest  of  the  Gansevoorts,  and  in  his  novel  Pierre,  the  child 
hood  recollections  of  his  hero  are  transparent  autobiographical 
references  to  his  own  early  memories.  "On  the  meadows 
which  sloped  away  from  the  shaded  rear  of  the  manorial  man 
sion,  far  to  the  winding  river,  an  Indian  battle  had  been  fought, 
in  the  earlier  days  of  the  colony,  and  in  that  battle  the  great 
grandfather  of  Pierre,  mortally  wounded,  had  sat  unhorsed 
on  his  saddle  in  the  grass,  with  his  dying  voice  still  cheering 
his  men  in  the  fray.  .  .  .  Far  beyond  these  plains,  a  day's 
walk  for  Pierre,  rose  the  storied  heights,  where  in  the  Revo 
lutionary  War  his  grandfather  had  for  several  months  de 
fended  a  rude  but  all-important  stockaded  fort,  against  the  re 
peated  combined  assaults  of  Indians,  Tories  and  Regulars. 
From  behind  that  fort,  the  gentlemanly  but  murderous  half- 
breed,  Brandt,  had  fled,  but  survived  to  dine  with  General 
(Gansevoort)  in  the  amiable  times  that  followed  that  vindic 
tive  war.  All  the  associations  of  Saddle-Meadows  were  full 
of  pride  to  Pierre.  The  (Gansevoort)  deeds  by  which  their 
estate  had  been  so  long  held,  bore  the  cyphers  of  three  Indian 
kings,  the  aboriginal  and  only  conveyancers  of  those  noble 
woods  and  plains.  Thus  loftily,  in  the  days  of  his  circum- 


36  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

scribed  youth,  did  Pierre  glance  along  the  background  of  his 
race.  ...  Or  how  think  you  it  would  be  with  this  youthful 
Pierre  if  every  day,  descending  to  breakfast,  he  caught  sight 
of  an  old  tattered  British  banner  or  two,  hanging  over  an 
arched  window  in  the  hall :  and  those  banners  captured  by  his 
grandfather,  the  general,  in  fair  fight?'* 

On  February  22,  1832,  so  it  is  recorded  in  Joel  Munsell, 
The  Annals  of  Albany  (Vol.  IX,  Albany,  1859)  "the  military 
celebrated  the  centennial  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  Wash 
ington.  Col.  Peter  Gansevoort,  on  this  occasion,  presented 
to  the  artillery  a  large  brass  Drum,  a  trophy  of  the  revolu 
tion,  taken  from  the  British  on  the  22nd  August,  1777,  at 
Fort  Stanwix,  by  his  father,  General  Peter  Gansevoort."  The 
sound  of  this  drum  was  tapping  in  Melville's  memory,  when 
he  goes  on  to  ask:  "Or  how  think  you  it  would  be  if  every 
time  he  heard  the  band  of  the  military  company  of  the  village, 
he  should  distinctly  recognise  the  peculiar  tap  of  a  British 
kettle-drum  also  captured  by  his  grandfather  in  fair  fight,  and 
afterwards  suitably  inscribed  on  the  brass  and  bestowed  upon 
the  Saddle-Meadows  Artillery  Corps?  Or  how  think  you  it 
would  be,  if  sometimes  of  a  mild  meditative  Fourth  of  July 
morning  in  the  country,  he  carried  out  with  him  into  the  gar 
den  by  way  of  ceremonial  cane,  a  long,  majestic,  silver-tipped 
staff,  a  Major-General's  baton,  once  wielded  oil  the  plume- 
nodding  and  musket-flashing  review  by  the  same  grand 
father  several  times  here-in-before  mentioned?" 

Not  content  to  leave  this  a  rhetorical  query,  Melville  an 
swers  his  own  catechism  in  unambiguous  terms :  "I  should  say 
that  considering  Pierre  was  quite  young  and  very  unsophisti 
cated  as  yet,  and  withal  rather  high-blooded ;  and  sometimes 
read  the  History  of  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  possessed  a 
mother  who  very  frequently  made  remote  social  allusions  to 
the  epaulettes  of  the  Major-General  his  grandfather; — I  should 
say  that  upon  all  these  occasions,  the  way  it  must  have  been 
with  him  was  a  very  proud,  elated  sort  of  way." 

Melville  did  not  preserve  throughout  his  long  life  this  early 
and  proud  elation  in  his  descent,  and  in  later  years  he  thought 
it  necessary  to  apologise  for  the  short-sighted  and  provincial 


GHOSTS  37 

self-satisfaction  that  he  absorbed  from  his  parents  in  his  early 
youth.  "And  if  this  seem  but  too  fond  and  foolish  in  Pierre," 
he  pleads  in  a  mood  both  of  apology  and  of  prophecy;  "and  if 
you  tell  me  that  this  sort  of  thing  in  him  showed  him  no  ster 
ling  Democrat,  and  that  a  truly  noble  man  should  never  brag 
of  any  arm  but  his  own ;  then  I  beg  you  to  consider  again  that 
this  Pierre  was  but  a  youngster  as  yet.  And  believe  me,  you 
will  pronounce  Pierre  a  thorough-going  Democrat  in  time; 
perhaps  a  little  too  Radical  altogether  to  your  fancy." 

Radical  he  came  to  be,  indeed :  it  was  the  necessary  penalty 
of  being  cursed  with  an  intelligence  above  that  of  the  smug 
and  shallow  optimism  of  his  country  and  his  period.  Demo 
cratic  he  may  have  been,  but  only  in  the  most  unpopular  mean 
ing  of  that  once  noble  term.  He  was  a  democrat  in  the  same 
relentless  sense  tKat  Dante  or  Milton  were  democrats.  Lucifer 
rebelled,  let  it  be  remembered,  to  make  Heaven  "safe  for  De 
mocracy  :"  the  first  experiment  in  popular  government. 
"Hell/'  says  Melville,  "is  a  democracy  of  devils."  In  Mardi, 
Melville  indulges  lengthy  reflections  on  a  certain  "chanticleer 
people"  who  boast  boisterously  of  themselves :  "Saw  ye  ever 
such  a  land  as  this  ?  Is  it  not  a  great  and  extensive  republic  ? 
Pray,  observe  how  tall  we  are;  just  feel  of  our  thighs;  are  we 
not  a  glorious  people  ?  We  are  all  Kings  here ;  royalty  breathes 
in  the  common  air."  Before  the  spectacle  of  this  lusty  repub 
licanism,  Melville  exhibits  unorthodox  doubts.  "There's  not 
so  much  freedom  here  as  these  freemen  think,"  he  makes  a 
strolling  deity  observe;  "I  laugh  and  admire.  .  .  .  Freedom 
is  more  social  than  political.  And  its  real  felicity  is  not  to  be 
shared.  That  is  of  a  man's  own  individual  getting  and  hold 
ing.  Little  longer,  may  it  please  you,  can  republics  subsist 
now,  than  in  days  gone  by.  Though  all  men  approached  sages 
in  wisdom,  some  would  yet  be  more  wise  than  others ;  and  so, 
the  old  degrees  would  be  preserved.  And  no  exemption  would 
an  equality  of  knowledge  furnish,  from  the  inbred  servility  of 
mortal  to  mortal ;  from  all  the  organic  causes,  which  inevitably 
divide  mankind  into  brigades  and  battalions,  with  captains  at 
their  heads.  Civilisation  has  not  ever  been  the  brother  of 
equality." 


38  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

As  Melville  grew  away  from  boyhood,  he  came  to  distin 
guish  between  the  accidentals  and  the  essentials  that  distin 
guish  man  from  man.  At  his  mother's  breast  he  had  absorbed 
with  her  milk  a  vivid  and  exaggerated  belief  that  the  accidents 
concomitant  upon  birth  that  range  men  into  artificial  classes, 
were  ingrain  in  the  very  woof  of  the  universe.  When  he  later 
discovered  that  his  parents  tinted  life  with  a  very  perishable 
dye,  he  also  found,  set  below  their  cheap  calico  patterns,  an 
unchangeable  texture  of  sharper  and  deeper  and  more  varie 
gated  colours.  And  he  discovered,  too,  that  his  uncritical  boy 
hood  pride  in  his  blood  was,  withal,  not  entirely  a  mere  savage 
delight  in  calico  prints. 

He  was,  as  he  boasts  in  the  sub-title  of  Redburn,  "the  son- 
of-a-gentleman,"  reared  in  an  environment  rich  with  the  mel 
lowing  influences  of  splendid  family  traditions.  And  these 
associations  left  an  indelible  stamp  upon  him.  In  Mardi,  in 
speaking  of  the  impossibility  of  belying  one's  true  nature  while 
at  sea  and  in  the  fellowship  of  sailors,  he  offers  himself  as  an 
example  to  point.  "Aboard  of  all  ships  in  which  I  have 
sailed,"  he  says,  "I  have  invariably  been  known  by  a  sort  of 
drawing-room  title.  Not, — let  me  hurry  to  say, — that  I  put 
hand  in  tar  bucket  with  a  squeamish  air,  or  ascended  the  rig 
ging  with  a  Chesterfieldian  mince.  No,  no,  I  was  never  better 
than  my  vocation.  I  showed  as  brown  a  chest,  and  as  hard  a 
hand,  as  the  tarriest  tar  of  them  all.  And  never  did  shipmate 
of  mine  upbraid  me  with  a  genteel  disinclination  to  duty, 
though  it  carried  me  to  truck  of  main-mast,  or  jib-boom-end, 
in  the  most  wolfish  blast  that  ever  howled.  Whence,  then, 
this  annoying  appellation  ?  for  annoying  it  most  assuredly  was. 
It  was  because  of  something  in  me  that  could  not  be  hidden; 
stealing  out  in  an  occasional  polysyllable ;  an  otherwise  incom 
prehensible  deliberation  in  dining;  remote,  unguarded  allusions 
to  belle-lettres  affairs;  and  other  trifles  superfluous  to  men 
tion." 

Though  his  grandfather,  General  Peter  Gansevoort,  had 
been  dead  seven  years  when  Melville  was  born,  so  vital  were 
the  relics  of  him  that  surrounded  Melville's  boyhood,  so  rev 
erently  was  his  memory  tended  by  his  first  child  and  only 


GHOSTS  39 

daughter,  that  the  image  of  Peter  Gansevoort  was  one  of  the 
most  potent  influences  during  Melville's  most  impressionable 
years.  The  heroic  presence  that  dominated  Melville's  imag 
ination,  "measured  six  feet  four  inches  in  height;  during  a 
fire  in  the  old  manorial  mansion,  with  one  dash  of  the  foot,  he 
had  smitten  down  an  oaken  door,  to  admit  the  buckets  of  his 
negro  slaves;  Pierre  had  often  tried  on  his  military  vest,  which 
still  remained  an  heirloom  at  Saddle-Meadows,  and  found  the 
pockets  below  his  knees,  and  plenty  additional  room  for  a  fair- 
sized  quarter-cask  within  its  buttoned  girth;  in  a  night  scuffle 
in  the  wilderness  before  the  Revolutionary  War,  he  had  anni 
hilated  two  Indian  savages  by  making  reciprocal  bludgeons  of 
their  heads.  And  all  this  was  done  by  the  mildest  hearted,  the 
most  blue-eyed  gentleman  in  the  world,  who,  according  to  the 
patriarchal  fashion  of  those  days,  was  a  gentle,  white-haired 
worshipper  of  all  the  household  gods;  the  gentlest  husband 
and  the  gentlest  father;  the  kindest  master  to  his  slaves;  of 
the  most  wonderful  unruffledness  of  temper;  a  serene  smoker 
of  his  after  dinner  pipe;  a  forgiver  of  many  injuries;  a  sweet- 
hearted,  charitable  Christian;  in  fine,  a  pure,  cheerful,  child 
like,  blue-eyed,  divine  old  man;  in  whose  meek,  majestic  soul 
the  lion  and  the  lamb  embraced — fit  image  of  his  God."  His 
portrait  was  to  Melville  "a  glorious  gospel  framed  and  hung 
upon  the  wall,  and  declaring  to  all  people,  as  from  the  Mount, 
that  man  is  a  noble,  god-like  being,  full  of  choicest  juices; 
made  up  of  strength  and  beauty."  Most  of  the  images  of  God 
that  Melville  met  in  actual  secular  embodiment,  suffered  trag 
ically  by  comparison  with  this  image  of  mortal  perfection 
which  Melville  nursed  in  his  heart.  Most  men  that  Melville 
met,  in  falling  short  of  the  mythical  excellence  of  Peter  Ganse 
voort,  whom  he  never  knew  in  the  flesh,  seemed  to  Melville, 
to  be  libels  upon  their  Divine  Original.  According  to  Mel 
ville's  account,  he  could  never  look  upon  his  grandfather's 
military  portrait  without  an  infinite  and  mournful  longing  to 
meet  his  living  aspect  in  actual  life.  Yet  such  was  the  temper 
of  Melville's  mind,  his  life  such  a  tragic  career  of  dreaming  of 
elusive  perfection,  dreams  invariably  to  be  dashed  and  bruised 
and  shattered  by  an  incompatible  reality,  that  it  is  safe  to  sur- 


40  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

mise — with  no  impiety  to  the  memory  of  Peter  Gansevoort — 
that  had  Melville  known  his  maternal  grandfather,  the  old 
General's  six  feet  four  of  blood  and  bone  would  have  shrunk, 
with  his  extravagance  of  all  human  excellence,  to  more  truly 
historical  dimensions. 

Melville's  paternal  grandfather,  Major  Thomas  Melville, 
who  died  in  1832,  when  Melville  was  thirteen  years  old,  in 
spired  his  grandson  to  no  such  glowing  tributes.  Born  in 
Boston,  in  1751,  an  only  child,  he  was  left  an  orphan  at  the 
age  of  ten.  It  appears  by  the  probate  records  on  the  appoint 
ment  of  his  guardian  in  1761,  that  he  inherited  a  considerable 
fortune  from  his  father.  He  was  reared  by  his  maternal 
grandmother,  Mrs.  Mary  Cargill.  Mrs.  Mary  Cargill's  brother 
was  the-  celebrated  and  eccentric  dissenter  and  polemic  writer, 
John  Abernethy  of  Dublin,  who  in  his  Tracts  (collected  in 
1751)  measured  swords  with  Swift  himself  triumphantly;  her 
son,  David,  was  both  a  celebrated  warrior  against  the  Indians, 
and  the  father  of  twenty-three  children,  fifteen  of  whom  were 
sons.  Whatever  the  immediate  male  relatives  of  Mrs.  Mary 
Cargill  did,  it  would  appear,  they  did  vigorously,  and  on  an 
enterprising  scale.  She  was  herself  an  old  lady  of  very  inde 
pendent  ideas  about  the  universe,  and  her  grandson,  Thomas 
Melville — Melville's  grandfather, — perpetuated  much  of  her 
independence.  Indifferent  to  the  caprices  of  fashion,  Thomas 
Melville  persisted  until  his  death  in  1832,  in  wearing  the  old- 
fashioned  cocked  hat  and  knee  breeches.  Oliver  Holmes  said 
of  him :  "His  aspect  among  the  crowds  of  a  later  generation 
reminded  me  of  a  withered  leaf  which  has  held  to  its  stem 
through  the  storms  of  autumn  and  winter,  and  finds  itself  still 
clinging  to  its  bough  while  the  new  growths  of  spring  are 
bursting  their  buds  and  spreading  their  foliage  all  around  it." 

And  so  the  Autocrat  wrote : 

"I  saw  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 


MELVILLE  S  GRANDFATHERS 


GENERAL   PETER   GAXSEVOORT 


MAJOR  THOMAS  MELVILLE 


GHOSTS  41 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  priming-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan. 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head 
And  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

'They  are  gone.' 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  pressed 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said, — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow: 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  3ive  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough, 

Where  I  cling." 


42  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

In  his  boyhood,  Thomas  Melville  was  sent  by  his  grand 
mother  (who  lived  on  till  her  grandson  was  thirty  years  old, 
clinging  as  tenaciously  to  life  as  to  every  other  good  thing  she 
set  hands  upon)  to  the  College  of  New  Jersey,  now  Prince 
ton.  He  was  graduated  in  1769.  From  both  Princeton  and 
Harvard  he  later  received  an  M.A.  Between  1771  and  1773 
"he  visited  his  relatives  in  Scotland.  During  this  visit  he  was 
presented  with  the  freedom  of  the  city  of  St.  Andrews  and  of 
Renfrew.  He  returned  to  Boston  to  become  a  merchant  and 
to  enter  with  spirit  into  the  patriotic  ferment  then  so  actively 
brewing.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Long  Room  Club,  in  sym 
pathy  with  the  Sons  of  Liberty,  and  with  Paul  Revere,  one 
of  the  "Indians"  to  take  part  in  the  Boston  Tea  Party  of  De 
cember  1 6,  1773.  There  still  survive  a  few  unbrewed  leaves 
from  this  cargo  of  tea :  the  carefully  preserved  shakings  from 
Major  Melville's  shoes,  resurrected  when  he  relaxed  into  slip 
pers  immediately  upon  his  return  home  from  the  excitements 
of  revolutionary  defiance.  Though  Major  Melville  was, 
throughout  his  life,  an  extreme  conservative,  it  was  his  very 
conservatism  that  fired  him  to  revolution.  He  believed  that 
what  needed  to  be  conserved  was  the  constitutional — British 
constitutional — rights  of  his  country,  not  the  innovation  of 
Hanoverian  tyranny.  He  commanded  a  detachment  sent  to 
Nantucket,  the  centre  of  whaling,  to  watch  the  movement  of 
the  British  fleet;  in  the  expedition  into  Rhode  Island,  in  1778, 
tie  took  the  rank  of  Major  in  Croft's  regiment  of  Massachu 
setts  artillery.  His  resignation,  dated  Boston,  Oct.  21,  1778, 
states  "that  he  had  been  almost  three  years  in  said  service 
and  would  willingly  continue  to  serve,  but  owing  to  inadequate 
pay  and  subsequent  inability  to  support  his  family  he  felt  com 
pelled  to  resign  his  commission."  In  1789  he  was  commis 
sioned  by  Washington  as  naval  officer  of  the  port  of  Boston : 
a  commission  renewed  by  all  succeeding  presidents  down  to 
Andrew  Jackson's  time  in  1824.  Major  Melville  was  the 
nearest  surviving  male  relative  of  the  picturesque  General 
Robert  Melville,  who  was  the  first  and  only  Captain  Gen 
eral  and  Governor-in-Chief  of  the  islands  ceded  to  Eng 
land  by  France  in  1763,  and  at  the  time  of  his  death  in 


GHOSTS  43 

1809,  with  one  exception,  the  oldest  General  in  the  British 
Army. 

In  1779,  Major  Melville  was  elected  fire  ward  of  Boston, 
and  when  he  resigned  in  1825,  he  was  offered  a  vote  of  thanks 
"for  the  zeal,  intrepidity  and  judgment  with  which  he  has  on 
all  occasions  discharged  his  duties  as  fire  ward  for  forty-six 
years  in  succession,  and  for  twenty-six  as  chairman  of  the 
board."  In  those  days,  volunteer  fire  companies  were  fash 
ionable  sporting  clubs,  and  such  was  the  distinction  attached 
to  membership  that  a  premium  was  often  paid  for  the  privilege 
of  belonging  to  such  an  exclusive  and  diverting  fraternity. 
Melville's  father-in-law,  Lemuel  Shaw,  Chief  Justice  of  Mas 
sachusetts,  was  Fire  Warden  between  1818  and  1821.  Mel 
ville's  grandfather  and  future  father-in-law  may  have  met  at 
many  a  fire  and,  for  all  we  know  to  the  contrary,  the  intimacy 
between  the  Shaws  and  the  Melvilles  that  culminated  in  Her 
man's  marriage,  may  have  been  first  kindled  by  a  burning 
house. 

The  tradition  survives  of  Major  Melville  that  the  excite 
ment  of  running  to  fire  grew  upon  him  like  gambling  upon 
more  sedentary  mortals,  and  that  his  death  was  caused  by 
over-fatigue  and  exposure  at  a  fire  near  his  house  he  attended 
at  the  age  of  eighty-one. 

Of  Melville's  two  grandmothers,  Catharine  Van  Schaick 
and  Priscilla  Scollay,  there  is  no  mention  in  any  of  his  writ 
ings.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of  Melville's  writings  indeed,  com 
pletely  to  disregard  all  of  his  female  relatives, — with  the  not 
able  exceptions  of  his  mother,  his  mother-in-law,  and  his  wife. 

Major  Thomas  Melville,  by  his  marriage  with  Priscilla 
Scollay,  is  said  to  have  aggravated  an  already  ample  fortune, 
though  the  terms  of  his  resignation  from  the  Revolutionary 
army  argue  a  dwindling  of  income  during  unsettled  times. 
The  Scollays,  one  of  the  oldest  of  Boston  families,  were  re 
lated  to  Melville  not  only  by  direct  blood  descent,  but  Mel 
ville's  great-great-uncle,  John  Melville  (who  died  in  London 
in  1798)  married  Deborah  Scollay,  Melville's  great-aunt.  De 
borah  Scollay,  Priscilla's  sister,  was  the  first  of  thirteen  chil 
dren;  Priscilla  the  tenth.  The  Scollays,  in  brave  competition 


44  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

with  the  Melvilles  and  the  Gansevoorts,  seem  to  have  devoutly 
accepted  the  Mosaic  edict  to  increase  and  multiply :  they  were, 
as  Carlyle  says  of  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold,  of  "unhastening,  un 
resting  diligence."  Major  Thomas  Melville  had  eleven  chil 
dren  by  his  wife  Priscilla,  Melville's  father  Allan  being  the 
fourth  child  and  second  son.  Of  the  influence  of  Allan's  nu 
merous  brothers  and  sisters  upon  Melville  there  are  scant  rec 
ords  to  show.  His  aunt  Priscilla,  however,  mentioned  him 
in  her  will. 

Allan's  oldest  sister,  Mary  (1778-1859)  married  Captain 
John  DeWolf  II.  of  Bristol,  Rhode  Island.  In  Moby-Dick, 
in  offering  instances  of  ships  being  charged  upon  by  whales, 
Melville  quotes  from  the  Voyages  of  Captain  Langsdorff,  a 
member  of  Admiral  Krusenstern's  famous  Discovery  Expe 
dition  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century.  In  the  passage 
quoted  by  Melville  is  mentioned  a  Captain  D'Wolf.  "Now, 
the  Captain  D'Wolf  here  alluded  to  as  commanding  the  ship 
in  question,"  says  Melville,  "is  a  New  Englander,  who,  after 
a  long  life  of  unusual  adventures  as  a  sea  captain,  this  day 
resides  in  the  village  of  Dorchester,  near  Boston.  I  have  the 
honour  of  being  a  nephew  of  his.  I  have  particularly  ques 
tioned  him  concerning  this  passage  in  Langsdorff.  He  sub 
stantiates  every  word."  In  Rcdburn,  Melville  speaks  of  "an 
uncle  of  mine,  an  old  sea-captain,  with  white  hair,  who  used 
to  sail  to  a  place  called  Archangel  in  Russia,  and  who  used 
to  tell  me  that  he  was  with  Captain  Langsdorff,  when  Captain 
Langsdorff  crossed  over  by  land  from  the  sea  of  Okotsk  in 
Asia  to  St.  Petersburg,  drawn  by  large  dogs  in  a  sled.  .  .  . 
He  was  the  very  first  sea  captain  I  had  ever  seen,  and  his  white 
hair  and  fine  handsome  florid  face  made  so  strong  an  impres 
sion  upon  me  that  I  have  never  forgotten  him,  though  I  only 
saw  him  during  this  one  visit  of  his  to  New  York,  for  he  was 
lost  in  the  White  Sea  some  years  after."  Just  what,  if  any 
thing  besides  two  contradictory  statements — Melville  owed  to 
this  uncle  it  would  be  worthless  to  surmise. 

Another  of  Melville's  uncles,  however,  Thomas — Allan's 
older  brother — played  an  important  role  in  Melville's  develop 
ment.  After  an  eventful  residence  of  twenty-one  years  in 


GHOSTS  45 

France,  Thomas  returned  to  America  with  his  wife  Frangoise 
Raymonde  Eulogie  Marie  des  Douleurs  Lame  Fleury,  shortly 
before  the  War  of  1812.  Enlisted  in  the  army,  he  was  sent  to 
Pittsfield,  Massachusetts,  with  the  rank  of  Major.  After  the 
^var  he  continued  in  Pittsfield,  and  with  his  family  set  up  at 
what  is  now  Broadhall. 

Broadhall,  built  by  Henry  Van  Schaek  in  1781,  bought  by 
Elkanah  Watson  in  1807,  was,  in  1816,  acquired  by  Major 
Thomas  Melville  of  the  cocked  hat.  His  son,  Major  Thomas 
Melville  of  the  French  wife,  lived  in  Broadhall  until  1837, 
when  he  moved  to  Galena,  Illinois,  where  he  died  on  August 
I — Melville's  birthday — 1845.  By  a  parallel  irony  of  fate, 
just  as  the  Stanwix  House  of  the  Gansevoorts  is  now  a  hotel, 
Broadhall  of  the  Melvilles  is  now  a  country  club. 

It  was  a  strange  transplanting,  that  of  Major  Thomas  Mel 
ville  and  his  wife,  Marie  des  Douleurs,  from  Paris  to  the  rus 
tic  crudities  of  the  farming  outskirts  of  civilisation.  Marie 
des  Douleurs  rapidly  pined  and  wilted  in  trie  harsh  brusque  air. 
A  bundle  of  her  letters  survive,  written  in  a  delicate  drooping 
hand:  letters  that  might  have  been  written  by  a  wasted  and 
homesick  nun.  In  1814,  within  the  space  of  a  single  month, 
Mrs.  Thomas  Melville  and  two  of  her  children  died  of  con 
sumption.  Thomas,  of  more  vigorous  stock,  survived  to 
marry  again — this  time  to  Mary  Anna  Augusta  Hobard,  and 
to  take  actively  to  farming.  He  achieved  a  local  reputation 
for  his  successful  devotion  to  the  soil;  presiding  at  meetings 
of  the  Berkshire  Agricultural  Association,  and  winning  a  first 
prize  at  a  ploughing  match  at  the  Berkshire  Fair.  As  a  boy, 
Melville  was  sent  to  alternate  his  visits  to  the  Gansevoorts  by 
trips  to  his  uncle  at  Pittsfield.  The  single  record  of  his  life  at 
Broadhall  is  preserved  in  The  History  of  Pittsfield  (1876) 
"compiled  and  written,  under  the  general  direction  of  a  com 
mittee,  by  J.  E.  A.  Smith."  Melville  says : 

"In  1836  circumstances  made  me  the  greater  portion  of  a 
year  an  inmate  of  my  uncle's  family,  and  an  active  assistant 
upon  the  farm.  He  was  then  grey  haired,  but  not  wrinkled; 
of  a  pleasing  complexion,  but  little,  if  any,  bowed  in  figure; 
and  preserving  evident  traces  of  the  prepossessing  good  looks 


46  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

of  his  youth.  His  manners  were  mild  and  kindly,  with  a  faded 
brocade  of  old  French  breeding,  which — contrasted  with  his 
surroundings  at  the  time — impressed  me  as  not  a  little  inter 
esting,  not  wholly  without  a  touch  of  pathos. 

"He  never  used  the  scythe,  but  I  frequently  raked  with  him 
in  the  hay  field.  At  the  end  of  the  swath  he  would  at  times 
pause  in  the  sun  and,  taking  out  his  smooth  worn  box  of  satin- 
wood,  gracefully  help  himself  to  a  pinch  of  snuff,  while  lean 
ing  on  his  rake ;  quite  naturally  :  and  yet  with  a  look,  which — 
as  I  recall  it — presents  him  in  the  shadowy  aspect  of  a  courtier 
of  Louis  XVI,  reduced  as  a  refugee  to  humble  employment  in 
a  region  far  from  gilded  Versailles. 

"By  the  late  October  fire,  in  the  great  hearth  of  the  capa 
cious  kitchen  of  the  old  farm  mansion,  I  remember  to  have 
seen  him  frequently  sitting  just  before  early  bed  time,  gazing 
into  the  embers,  while  his  face  plainly  expressed  to  a  sympa 
thetic  observer  that  his  heart,  thawed  to  the  core  under  the  in 
fluence  of  the  general  flame — carried  him  far  away  over  the 
ocean  to  the  gay  boulevards. 

"Suddenly,  under  the  accumulation  of  reminiscences,  his  eye 
would  glisten  and  become  humid.  With  a  start  he  would  check 
himself  in  his  reverie,  and  give  an  ultimate  sigh;  as  much  as  to 
say  'ah,  well!'  and  end  with  an  aromatic  pinch  of  snuff.  It 
was  the  French  graft  upon  the  New  England  stock,  which  pro 
duced  this  autumnal  apple  :  perhaps  the  mellower  for  the  frost." 

It  was  immediately  following  upon  the  heels  of  this  sojourn 
in  Pittsfield  in  1836,  that  Melville  went  down  to  the  sea  and 
shipped  before  the  mast.  Of  Melville's  companionship  with 
his  Pittsfield  cousins  during  this  visit,  nothing  seems  to  be 
known.  Melville's  uncle,  Thomas,  had  two  children  living  at 
the  time :  Anna  Marie  Priscilla,  who  died  in  Pittsfield  in  1858, 
and  Pierre  Francois  Henry  Thomas  Wilson,  thirteen  years 
Melville's  senior,  who  in  1842  died  in  the  Sandwich  Islands. 
That  Pierre's  adventures  to  the  far  corners  of  the  earth  may 
have  had  some  influence  upon  Melville's  taking  to  a  ship  is  a 
tempting  surmise ;  but  a  surmise  whose  only  cogency  is  its  pos 
sibility. 

Whatever  the  influence  of  Pittsfield  in  sending  Melville  to 


GHOSTS  47 

sea,  it  was  to  Pittsfield  he  finally  returned,  when,  after  wide 
wanderings,  he  faced  homeward.  The  old  Major,  his  uncle, 
was  dead,  and  Broadhall,  descended  to  one  of  his  sons,  was 
rented  as  a  hotel.  During  the  summer  of  1850,  Melville  and 
his  wife  boarded  at  Broadhall.  In  October  of  the  same  year, 
they  settled  in  Pittsfield,  not  at  Broadhall,  as  has  been  repeat 
edly  stated,  but  at  a  neighbouring  farm,  christened  Arrowhead 
by  Melville.  Arrowhead  was  Melville's  home  for  the  follow 
ing  thirteen  years. 

Melville's  great-grandfather,  Allan — father  of  The  Last 
Leaf — came  to  America  in  1748,  and  settled  in  Boston  as 
a  merchant.  This  Allan  was  the  son  of  Thomas  Melville,  a 
clergyman  of  the  Scotch  Kirk.  This  Thomas  Melville  was 
from  1718  to  1764  minister  of  Scoonie  Parish,  Levin,  Fife- 
shire.  In  1769  he  "ended  his  days  in  a  state  of  most  cheerful 
tranquillity.'* 

Thomas  Melville  of  Scoonie  was  second  in  lineal  descent 
from  Sir  John  Melville  of  Carnbee:  a  worthy  knighted  by 
James  VI.  According  to  Sir  Robert  Douglas'  The  Baronage 
of  Scotland  (Edinburgh,  1798),  this  Sir  John  Melville  of 
Carnbee  was  thirteenth  in  direct  blood  descent  from  one  Sir 
Richard  Melvill,  a  man  of  distinction  in  the  reign  of  Alexan 
der  III,  and  who  in  1296  was  compelled  to  swear  allegiance 
to  Edward  I  of  England  when  he  overran  Scotland. 

If  this  remote  tracing  of  Melville's  descent  were  a  discovery 
of  facts  unknown  to  Melville,  it  would  be  an  ostentatious  ir 
relevancy  to  flaunt  it  in  his  biography.  But  Melville  was 
ironically  conscious  of  his  lineage,  and  when  his  earlier  novels 
had  won  him  reputation  at  home  and  in  England  as  an  enter 
taining  literary  vagabond,  in  France  (see  the  typically  patron 
ising  Etudes  sur  la  Litterature  et  les  Mceurs  des  Anglo-Ameri- 
cains  du  XIXe  Siecle — 'Paris,  1851 — by  M.  Philarete  Chasles) 
as  a  representative  product  of  a  crude  and  traditionless  civili 
sation,  he  took  satirical  unction  to  his  soul  at  the  illustrious 
associations  that  clung  around  his  ancient  name.  In  his  own 
person  he  felt  that  he  contradicted  the  conceit  of  the  European 
world  "that  in  demagogical  America  the  sacred  Past  hath  no 
fixed  statues  erected  to  it,  but  (that)  all  things  irreverently 


48  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

seethe  and  boil  in  the  vulgar  caldron  of  an  everlasting,  uncrys- 
tallising  Present."  Founding  his  defence  upon  the  knowledge 
of  his  own  ancestry,  he  maintained  in  Pierre  that  if  America  so 
chose  to  glorify  herself,  she  could  make  out  a  good  general 
case  with  England  in  the  little  matter  of  long  pedigrees — pedi 
grees,  that  is,  without  a  flaw.  In  monarchical  Europe,  Melville 
takes  pains  to  contend,  the  proudest  families  are  but  grafted 
families  that  successively  live  and  die  on  the  eternal  soil  of 
a  name.  In  the  pride  of  unbroken  lineal  blood  descent  from 
a  thirteenth  century  count,  he  matched  his  blood  and  patronym 
with  the  most  honoured  in  England.  "If  Richmond,  and  St. 
Albans,  and  Grafton,  and  Portland,  and  Buccleugh,  be  names 
almost  as  old  as  England  herself,  the  present  Dukes  of  those 
names  stop  in  their  own  genuine  pedigrees  at  Charles  II.,  and 
there  find  no  very  fine  fountain ;  since  what  we  would  deem  the 
least  glorious  parentage  under  the  sun,  is  precisely  the  parent 
age  of  a  Buccleugh,  for  example;  whose  ancestress  could  not 
well  avoid  being  a  mother,  it  is  true,  but  had  incidentally 
omitted  the  preliminary  rites.  Yet  a  King  was  the  sire.  .  .  . 
All  honour  to  the  names,  and  all  courtesy  to  the  men ;  but  if  St. 
Albans  tell  me  he  is  all-honourable  and  all-eternal,  I  must 
politely  refer  him  to  Nell  Gwynne."  Melville  bitterly  resented 
the  fashionable  foreign  imputation  that  his  was  a  rootless  and 
upstart  people.  Through  its  grilling  of  bars  sinister,  he  viewed 
the  superior  pretensions  of  monarchical  aristocracy  with  his 
finger  at  his  nose.  "If  in  America,"  he  boasted,  "the  vast  mass 
of  families  be  as  the  blades  of  grass,  yet  some  few  there  are 
that  stand  as  the  oak;  which,  instead  of  decaying,  annually  puts 
forth  new  branches;  whereby  Time,  instead  of  subtracting,  is 
made  to  capitulate  into  a  multiple  virtue." 

If  Melville  took  over-elaborate  pains  to  point  to  himself  as 
swinging  at  the  dizzy  crest  of  such  a  patriarchal  tree,  it  was 
not  to  derive  personal  glory  from  mere  altitude.  By  exhibiting 
the  humorous  incompatibility  between  his  destiny  and  his  de 
scent,  he  strove  to  show,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  both  the  ab 
surdity  of  all  pride  in  blood,  and  the  ironic  poignancy  of  his 
own  apparent  defeat. 

Melville's  parents,  however,  qualified  their  ancestral  pride 


GHOSTS  49 

with  no  such  ironic  considerations.  With  whole-hearted  grati 
tude  they  thanked  God  for  their  descent ;  nor  did  they,  in  their 
thanksgiving,  fail  to  acknowledge,  with  becoming  humility,  a 
Heavenly  Father  who,  in  power  and  glory,  transcended  even 
terrestrial  counts  and  brewers. 

Allan  was  always  a  man  of  devout  protestations;  and  al 
though  he  always  signed  his  own  name  with  an  underscoring  of 
tangled  flourishes,  he  wrote  the  name  of  God — and  his  corre 
spondence  is  liberally  scattered  with  Deity — with  three  con 
spicuous  capitals  of  his  most  ornate  penmanship.  Melville  was 
patently  modelling  the  father  of  Pierre  after  his  own  male  par 
ent,  when  he  recorded  Pierre's  father's  platitudinous  insist 
ence  "that  all  gentlemanhood  was  vain,  all  claims  to  it  prepos 
terous  and  absurd,  unless  the  primeval  gentleness  and  golden 
humanities  of  religion  had  been  so  thoroughly  wrought  into 
the  complete  texture  of  the  character,  that  he  who  pronounced 
himself  gentleman,  could  also  rightly  assume  the  meek  but 
knightly  style  of  Christian." 

Allan,  proud  in  the  sense  of  this  humility,  in  untangling  his 
descent  back  to  Sir  John  Melville  of  Carnbee,  seems  to  have 
rested  serenely  in  the  pious  faith  that  he  had  established  his 
kinship  to  all  the  titled  and  illustrious  Melvilles  in  history.  So 
he  carried  his  head  high — as  he  felt  a  republican  should — and 
with  a  generous  and  comprehensive  fraternity  claimed  as  his 
more  than  kith — as  indeed  they  were — an  impressive  congre 
gation  of  courtiers,  scholars  and  divines. 

So  prolific  has  been  the  Melville  family,  so  extended  its  his 
tory,  that  its  intricate  branchings  from  the  veritable  Aaron's 
rod  in  which  it  had  its  source,  have  never  been  completely  un 
tangled  by  even  the  most  arduous  genealogical  historians. 
With  what  directness  and  potency  the  different  Melville  strains 
were  active  in  Melville's  blood  it  would  be  utterly  absurd  to 
pretend  to  determine.  But  if  not  forces  in  Melville's  blood, 
Allan  made  them  vital  presences  in  his  son's  boyhood  imagina 
tion. 

The  most  illustrious  of  this  shadowy  company  of  adopted 
ancestors  was  the  old  Viking,  Andrew  Melville  (1545-1622), 
the  dauntless  "Episcopomastrix"  or  "Scourge  of  Bishops," 


50  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

second  in  fame  among  Scotch  reformers  only  to  John  Knox. 
In  October,  1577,  at  an  interview  between  Andrew  and  the 
Regent  Morton,  the  latter,  irritated  at  the  intrepidity  of  the 
assembly,  exclaimed :  "There  will  never  be  quiet  in  this  coun 
try  till  half  a  dozen  of  you  be  hanged!"  Whereupon  Andrew, 
in  language  Morton  dared  not  resent,  exclaimed  :  "Hark!  Sir; 
threaten  your  courtiers  after  that  manner.  It  is  the  same  to  me 
whether  I  rot  in  the  air  or  in  the  ground.  The  earth  is  the 
Lord's.  Patria  est  ubicunque  est  bene."  Another  Andrew 
(1624-1706)  among  these  ghostly  presences  was  a  soldier  of 
fortune  who  in  the  preface  of  his  Memoires  de  M.  de  Cheva 
lier  de  Melville  (Amsterdam,  1704)  was  eulogised  for  his 
valour  and  his  protestantism. 

Conspicuous  in  Allan's  library  was  a  copy  of  the  Memoirs 
of  His  Own  Life  by  Sir  James  Melvil  of  Hallhill  (London, 
1683),  bearing  the  autograph  of  Allan's  great-grandfather, 
Thomas  Melville  of  Scoonie.  This  volume  had  been  brought 
to  America  by  Allan's  grandfather  in  1746,  and  was  cherished 
by  Melville's  father  as  a  record  of  the  part  played  by  his  ex 
uberant  ancestors  in  the  turbulent  affairs  of  Elizabeth  and 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  From  this  volume  Allen  taught  his 
children  of  Sir  James'  father,  John  Melville,  Lord  of  Raith  in 
Fife,  who,  "although  there  was  not  the  least  suspicion  of  anie 
fault,  yitt  lost  he  his  head,  becaus  he  was  known  to  be  one  that 
unfainedlie  favoured  the  truthe ;"  of  Sir  James'  brother,  Wil 
liam,  who  was  able  to  speak  perfectly  "the  Latin,  the  Dutche, 
the  Flemyn,  and  the  Frenche  tongue;"  of  another  brother  of 
Sir  James,  Sir  Robert  Melville,  who  "spak  brave  and  stout 
language  to  the  consaill  of  England,  so  that  the  quen  herself 
boisted  him  of  his  lyf."  But  all  of  the  details  of  Sir  James' 
racy  account  of  his  own  adventures  were  not  fit  entertainment 
for  the  sons  of  New  England  Unitarians.  Yet  many  of  these 
unpuritan  accounts  are  in  Melville's  own  vein,  as  witness  the 
recounting  of  the  incident  that  befell  Sir  James  at  the  age  of 
fourteen,  when,  in  company  with  the  French  Ambassador, 
Monluc,  Bishop  of  Valence,  he  was  entertained  in  Ireland  by 
one  O'Docherty  who  lived  in  "a  dark  tour."  It  appears  that 
the  Bishop  paid  such  disquieting  attention  to  O'Docherty's 


GHOSTS  51 

daughter  that  the  father  substituted  another  bait  to  the  Pre 
late's  susceptibilities :  a  substitution  that  produced  an  awkward 
scene  in  etiquette.  For  the  second  lady  mistook  a  phial  "of 
the  maist  precious  balm  that  grew  in  Egypt,  which  Soliman  the 
great  Turc  had  given  in  a  present  to  the  same  bishop"  for  some 
thing  to  eat;  and  this  "because  it  had  an  odoriphant  smell." 
"Therefore  she  licked  it  clean  out."  During  this  process  of 
consumption,  O'Docherty's  daughter,  disengaged  from  the 
Bishop,  turned  to  Sir  James  for  solace,  with  an  offer  to 
elope.  Sir  James  was  cautious  for  his  fourteen  years,  and 
convinced  the  lady  of  the  superfluousness  of  migratory  im 
pulses. 

Contemporary  with  Allan,  there  lived  in  Scotland,  direct  de 
scendants  of  these  Elizabethan  Melvilles.  One  year  before 
Herman's  birth,  Allan,  with  admirable  republican  simplicity, 
decided,  during  one  of  the  frequent  business  trips  that  took 
him  across  the  Atlantic,  to  look  up  his  titled  Scotch  cousins, 
and  pay  them  the  compliments  of  his  dutiful  respects.  The 
record  of  this  adventure  is  preserved  in  Allan's  journal,  bound 
in  vellum  of  a  lurid  emerald  green.  The  entries  are  charac 
teristically  business-like,  and  stoically  naked  of  personal  re 
flections  : 

May  22,  1818 — Visited  Melville  house,  the  seat  of  the  Earl 
of  Leven  &  Melville  at  2  P.M.,  14  miles — 
the  Earl  &  Family  being  absent,  left  them  at 
4  A.M.  &  dined  at  the  New  Inn  at  the  Junc 
tion  of  the  Perth,  Cupar  &  Dundee  Roads, 
6  miles. 

May  26,  1818 — Reached  Melville  house  at  */2  past  3  P.M. — 
10  miles — &  met  with  a  very  hospitable  & 
friendly  reception  from  his  lordship  &  family. 

May  2J9  1818 — Left  Melville  house  at  l/2  past  1 1  in  his  lord 
ship's  gig  with  a  lacquey  to  meet  the  coach  at 
the  New  Inn. 

It  would,  perhaps,  be  entertaining  to  know  just  exactly  what 
Alexander,  7th  Earl  of  Levin  and  6th  Earl  of  Melville,  who 


52  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

was  also  Viscount  Kirkaldie,  Lord  Melville  of  Monymaill, 
Lord  Bolgonie,  and  Lord  Raith,  Monyraill  and  Balwearie, 
thought  in  his  heart  of  Allan  Melville  of  Boston,  merchant, 
and  importer  of  commodities  from  France. 


CHAPTER  III 

PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS 

"In  general  terms  we  have  been  thus  decided  in  asserting  the  great 
genealogical  and  real-estate  dignity  of  some  families  in  America,  because 
in  so  doing  we  poetically  establish  the  richly  aristocratic  condition  of 
Master  Pierre  Glendinning,  for  whom  we  have  claimed  some  special 
family  distinction.  And  to  the  observant  reader  the  sequel  will  not  fail 
to  show  how  important  is  this  circumstance,  considered  with  reference 
to  the  singularly  developed  character  and  most  singular  life-career  of  our 
hero.  Nor  will  any  man  dream  that  the  last  chapter  was  merely  in 
tended  for  a  foolish  bravado,  and  not  with  a  solid  purpose  in  view." 

—HERMAN  MELVILLE:  Pierre. 

SAMUEL  BUTLER,  who  with  Thomas  Huxley  cherished  cer 
tain  unorthodox  convictions  as  to  "the  unfathomable  injustice 
of  the  Universe/'  found  the  make-shift  of  family  life  not  the 
least  of  natural  evils.  In  a  more  benevolent  adjustment  of 
the  human  animal  to  its  environment,  so  Butler  declared,  chil 
dren  would  be  spared  the  incubus  of  parents.  After  the  ease 
ful  death  of  their  progenitors,  they  would  be  hatched,  cocoon- 
like,  from  an  ample  and  comfortable  roll  of  bank-notes  of  high 
denomination.  And  it  is  a  foregone  surety  that,  had  Samuel 
Butler  known  Herman  Melville's  parents,  he  would  not  have 
been  moved  to  soften  his  impeachment  of  the  way  of  all  flesh. 
For  the  household  of  Allan  Melville  bore  striking  resemblances 
to  that  of  the  most  self-important  of  the  Pontifexes.  Both 
John  Pontifex  and  Allan  Melville,  judged  either  by  the  ac 
cepted  standards  of  their  own  time  or  to-day,  were  good  men : 
to  his  God,  his  neighbours,  his  wife,  his  children,  each  did  his 
duty  relentlessly.  And  each,  as  Melville,  with  obvious  autobio 
graphical  reference,  says  of  the  father  of  Pierre,  "left  behind 
him  in  the  general  voice  of  the  world,  a  marked  reputation  as  a 
Christian  and  a  gentleman;  in  the  heart  of  his  wife,  a  green 
memory  of  many  healthy  days  of  unclouded  and  joyful  wedded 
life."  But  each  also  left  behind  him  a  son  v/lio  in  the  end  was 
to  cherish  his  memory  with  some  misgivings.  Allan  was  less 

53 


54,  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

fortunate  than  John  Pontifex  in  that  though  he  died  rich  in 
virtue,  he  died  with  no  corresponding  abundance  of  corrupt 
ible  riches.  Nothing  in  his  life  so  ill  became  him  as  his  be 
quest  of  poverty  to  his  widow  and  eight  children. 

Herman,  the  second  son  and  third  child,  was  thirteen  years 
old  at  the  time  of  Allan's  decease :  young  enough  to  cherish  up 
into  early  manhood  the  most  fantastic  idealisation  of  his 
father.  "Children  begin  by  loving  their  parents,"  a  modern 
cynic  has  said;  "later  the  children  grow  to  understanding,  and 
sometimes,  they  forgive."  As  Melville  grew  in  maturity  of 
years,  he  did  not  grow  in  charity  toward  his  parents.  In  his 
novel  Pierre  he  seems  to  draw  malicious  delight  in  pronounc 
ing,  under  a  thin  disguise,  an  imaginary  libel  upon  his  father's 
memory.  There  he  desecrated  in  fiction  what  he  had  once 
fondly  cherished  in  life.  Aside  from  its  high  achievement  as 
a  work  of  art,  this  dark  wild  book  of  incest  and  death  is  of 
the  greatest  importance  as  a  document  in  autobiography.  Most 
of  the  characters  in  Pierre  are  unmistakably  idealisations  of 
clearly  recognisable  originals.  The  hero,  Pierre  Glendinning, 
is  a  glorification  of  Melville;  the  widowed  mother,  Marie  Glen 
dinning,  owes  much  more  to  Melville's  mother,  Maria  Ganse- 
voort,  than  the  initials  of  her  name.  And  in  this  book,  Mel 
ville  exorcises  the  ghost  of  his  father,  and  brings  him  forth  to 
unearth  from  the  past  a  skeleton  that  Melville  seems  to  have 
manufactured  in  the  closet  of  a  vindictive  subconsciousness. 

"Blessed  and  glorified  in  his  tomb  beyond  Prince  Mausolus," 
wrote  Melville  at  the  age  of  thirty-three,  "is  that  mortal  sire, 
who,  after  an  honourable,  pure  course  of  life,  dies,  and  is 
buried,  as  in  a  choice  fountain,  in  the  filial  breast  of  a  tender 
hearted  and  intellectually  appreciative  child.  But  if  fate  pre 
serve  the  father  to  a  later  time,  too  often  the  filial  obsequies 
are  less  profound,  the  canonisation  less  ethereal." 

As  has  been  said,  Melville  was  thirteen  when,  in  1832,  his 
father  died.  And  at  that  time,  as  for  years  following,  there 
survived  from  Allan  in  Melville's  memory  "the  impression  of 
a  bodily  form  of  rare  manly  virtue  and  benignity,  only  rivalled 
by  the  supposed  perfect  mould  in  which  his  virtuous  heart  had 
been  cast."  In  Redburn  he  says  of  his  youthful  idealisation  of 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    55 

Allan :  "I  always  thought  him  a  marvellous  being,  infinitely 
purer  and  greater  than  I  was,  who  could  not  by  any  possibil 
ity  do  wrong  or  say  an  untruth/'  And  as  a  gesture  expres 
sive  of  this  piety  for  his  father's  memory,  he  took  but  one  book 
with  him  to  Liverpool  when  at  the  age  of  seventeen  he  worked 
his  way  across  the  Atlantic  in  a  merchantman.  This  was  an 
old  dog-eared  guide-book  that  had  belonged  to  his  father.  On 
the  map  in  this  book,  Allan,  with  characteristic  precision,  had 
traced  with  a  pen  a  number  of  dotted  lines  radiating  in  all  di 
rections  from  Riddough's  Hotel  at  the  foot  of  Lord  Street: 
marks  that  delineated  his  various  excursions  in  the  town.  As 
Melville  planned  his  itinerary  while  in  Liverpool,  he  was  in 
the  first  place  to  visit  Riddough's  Hotel,  where  his  father  had 
stopped  more  than  thirty  years  before;  and  then,  with  the  map 
in  his  hand,  to  follow  Allan  through  the  town,  according  to 
the  dotted  lines  in  the  diagram.  "For  this,"  says  Melville, 
"would  be  performing  a  filial  pilgrimage  to  spots  which  would 
be  hallowed  to  my  eyes."  Because  Melville  had  failed  to  take 
into  account  the  mutability  of  cities,  he  was  disappointed  to 
find  some  of  the  shrines  hallowed  by  his  father's  visits  no 
longer  in  existence.  But  the  very  bitterness  of  his  disappoint 
ment  was  an  eloquent  tribute  to  his  father's  memory. 

Allan  himself  was  born  in  1782,  second  son,  and  fourth 
child,  in  a  family  of  eleven  children.  Of  his  early  life,  almost 
nothing  is  known.  Though  he  was  born  into  a  well-to-do  fam 
ily  of  considerable  cultivation,  he  seems  never  to  have  been 
exposed  to  the  boasted  advantages  of  a  university  education. 
He  was,  however,  a  rather  extensively  travelled  man.  At  the 
age  of  eighteen,  as  if  to  set  a  precedent  for  his  son,  he  made 
his  first  trip  abroad.  But  whereas  Melville  went  as  a  sailor 
before  the  mast,  to  land  in  Liverpool  as  a  penniless  itinerant, 
Allan  was  two  years  in  Paris  as  a  guest,  in  comfortable  circum 
stances,  of  a  well-to-do  uncle.  Before  his  marriage  in  1814, 
Allan  made  five  other  pilgrimages  to  Europe;  and  once,  after 
his  marriage,  he  crossed  the  Atlantic  again.  This  last  trip  he 
would  not  have  taken  but  from  urgency  of  business :  "It  will 
be  a  most  painful  sacrifice  to  part  from  my  beloved  wife  and 
children,"  he  says,  in  prospect  of  the  journey;  "but  duty  to- 


56  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

wards  them  requires  it."  Allan  acclimated  himself  to  France 
as  a  young  man,  and  so  acquired  a  mastery  of  the  French 
language.  He  is  said  to  have  spoken  French  like  a  native: 
a  bilingual  accomplishment  that  Melville  never  even  re 
motely  acquired.  Melville  boasted  a  smattering  of  a  Poly 
nesian  dialect  or  two:  but  so  imperfect  was  this  smattering 
that  it  moved  Stevenson  to  complain  that  Melville,  like  Charles 
Lamb,  "had  no  ear." 

In  the  journal  which  Allan  kept  from  1800  to  1831,  there 
survives  a  meticulously  accurate  account  of  his  wanderings  up 
and  down  upon  the  face  of  Christendom.  On  the  fly-leaf  of 
the  journal,  under  the  title  "Recapitulations  of  Voyages  and 
Travels  from  1800  to  1822  both  inclusive,"  he  gives,  in  ledger 
like  summary,  this  statement  of  his  peregrinations: 


"by  land  24425  miles, 
by  water  48460  miles, 
days  at  sea,  etc.  643.' 


That  part  of  his  early  life  that  he  spent  outside  of  Europe, 
he  distributed  between  Boston  and  Albany.  Allan  was  a  man 
to  turn  to  account  all  of  his  resources.  His  knowledge  of 
French  he  converted  into  a  business  asset,  by  setting  up  as  a 
merchant-importer  trafficking  in  dry-goods  and  notions  from 
France :  "razors,  children's  white  leather  gloves,  leghorn  hats, 
and  taffeta  ribbons"  being  a  typical  shipment. 

It  was  in  Albany  that  Allan  met  Maria  Gansevoort :  a  meet 
ing  of  which  his  journal  is  austerely  ignorant.  If  there  ever 
were  any  romance  in  Allan's  life  he  must  have  emulated  Pepys 
and  recorded  it  in  cipher,  and  then,  with  a  caution  deeper  than 
Pepys',  have  burned  the  cryptic  revelation.  It  is  true  that  in 
Pierre,  Melville  attempts  to  brighten  his  father's  pre-marital 
years  by  imputing  to  him  a  lively  vitality  in  his  youth:  but 
the  evidence  for  this  imputation  hangs  upon  a  most  tenuous 
thread  of  ambiguities.  Yet  now  that  it  has  transpired  that 
even  the  sober  Wordsworth  under  similar  circumstances  suc 
cumbed  to  the  flesh,  it  is  not  impossible,  on  the  face  of  it,  that 
Allan,  in  the  unredeemed  years  before  his  comparatively  late 


From  a  Painting 
made  in  Paris,    1810. 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    57 

marriage,  may  have  been  anointed  in  mortality.  But  in  his 
later  life — as  was  Wordsworth — he  was  a  paragon  of  pro 
priety,  and  he  must  be  acquitted  of  indiscretion  until  more 
damning  facts  are  mustered  to  accuse  him.  All  surviving  evi 
dence  presents  him  as  a  model  of  rigid  decorum.  In  so  far 
as  he  has  revealed  himself,  all  but  the  most  restrained  and 
well-behaved  and  standardised  emotions  fell  within  the  for 
bidden  degrees.  It  is  certain  that  no  flower  ever  gave  him 
thoughts  too  deep  for  tears. 

His  courtship  seems  to  have  been  a  model  of  discretion,  and 
might  well  have  been  modelled  after  Mrs.  Hannah  More's 
Coelcbs  in  Search  of  a  Wife.  There  survive  two  gifts  that 
he  made  while  he  was  meditating  on  the  serious  verge  of 
matrimony.  A  year  before  his  marriage  he  bought,  fresh  from 
the  press,  a  copy  of  The  Pleasures  of  Imagination  by  Mark 
Akenside,  M.D.,  with  a  critical  essay  on  the  poem,  by  Mrs. 
Barbauld,  prefixed.  Whether  either  Allan  or  Maria  ever  read 
a  line  of  Dr.  Akenside  we  do  not  know :  Maria's  copy,  it  must 
be  confessed,  is  suspiciously  well-preserved.  But  Allan  had 
the  authority  of  Coelcbs  that  "the  condensed  vigour,  so  indis 
pensable  to  blank  verse,  the  skilful  variation  of  the  pause,  the 
masterly  structure  of  the  period,  and  all  the  occult  mysteries 
of  the  art,  can,  perhaps,  be  best  learned  from  Akenside." 
That  the  poet's  object  was  "to  establish  the  infinite  supe 
riority  of  mind  over  unconscious  matter,  even  in  its  fair 
est  terms,"  gave  Allan  opportunity  to  pay  Maria  a  veiled 
compliment. 

This  same  Anna  Letitia  Barbauld,  whose  introductory  essay 
gave  the  final  stamp  of  respectability  to  Dr.  Akenside,  had, 
in  a  chapter  of  advice  to  young  girls,  earlier  remarked,  and 
with  best-intentioned  seriousness,  that  "An  ass  is  much  better 
adapted  than  a  horse  to  show  off  a  lady."  It  may  be  so.  In 
any  event,  Allan  inscribed  on  the  fly-leaf  of  Dr.  Akenside's 
effusion : 

MISS   MARIA   GANSEVOORT 

FROM  HER  FRIEND 

A.  M. 


58  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

The  emotions  that  smouldered  beneath  this  chaste  inscrip 
tion  he  vented,  and  with  no  compromise  to  himself,  in  a  trop 
ical  tangle  of  copy-book  flourishes  that  he  made  below  his 
initials. 

The  second  gift  is  also  a  book — Mrs.  Chapone's  Letters 
on  the  Improvement  of  the  Mind.  Lydia  Languish,  it  is  true, 
had,  on  a  memorable  occasion,  with  unblushing  deceit,  placed 
Mrs.  Chapone  and  the  reverend  Fordyce  ostentatiously  on  a 
table  together.  But  it  is  certain  that  Allan  was  not  consciously 
furnishing  Miss  Gansevoort  with  any  of  the  stage-properties 
of  hypocrisy.  Mrs.  Chapone's  pronouncements  were  then  be 
ing  accepted  by  the  adoring  middle  class  as  Protestant  Bulls. 
And  Allan  purchased  Mrs.  Chapone's  little  volume  with  his 
ear  to  the  verdict  of  Mrs.  Delany,  who  wrote :  "They  speak 
to  the  heart  as  well  as  to  the  head;  and  I  know  no  book  (next 
to  the  Bible)  more  entertaining  or  edifying." 

It  was  within  a  few  months  before  his  marriage  that  Allan, 
in  the  most  orthodox  manner  of  that  "Happy  Half  Century" 
so  happily  celebrated  by  Miss  Agnes  Repplier,  undertook  to 
heighten  the  virtues  of  Miss  Maria  Gansevoort  by  exposing 
her  to  the  "pure  and  prevailing  superiority"  of  Mrs.  Chapone. 
For  Allan  was  a  cautious  man,  and  marriage,  he  knew,  was  a 
step  not  lightly  to  be  made.  "I  do  not  want  a  Helen,  or  a 
Saint  Cecilia,  or  a  Madame  Dacier,"  said  Coelebs,  in  sketch 
ing  an  ideal  wife;  "yet  must  she  be  elegant  or  I  could  not  love 
her;  sensible,  or  I  could  not  respect  her;  prudent,  or  I  could 
not  confide  in  her;  well-informed,  or  she  could  not  educate 
my  children ;  well-bred,  or  she  could  not  entertain  my  friends ; 
pious,  or  I  should  not  be  happy  with  her,  because  the  prime 
comfort  in  a  companion  for  life  is  the  delightful  hope  that 
she  will  be  a  companion  for  eternity." 

Maria  was  patently  elegant,  well-bred  and  pious.  The  pres 
ent  of  Dr.  Akenside  and  Mrs.  Chapone  gave  her  generous  op 
portunity  of  coming  to  be  well-informed.  But  Allan  did  not 
hesitate  to  make  further  and  more  direct  contributions  to  her 
information.  Prudence  he  rated  prime  among  virtues;  and 
he  approached  marriage  with  Miltonic  preconceptions.  By  no 
means  confident  that  the  eternal  truths  enunciated  by  Mrs. 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    59 

Chapone  would  penetrate  Maria's  female  intellect,  Allan  prud 
ently  summarised  the  most  sacred  verities  of  the  volume  in 
two  manuscript  introductions.  Maria's  copy  of  the  Letters 
bears  three  inscriptions  made  by  Allan  on  three  separate  fly 
leaves.  The  first  is  in  a  formal  upright  hand,  rigid  in  pro 
priety  : 

"Prudence  should  be  the  governing  principle  of  Woman's 
existence,  domestick  life  her  peculiar  sphere;  no  rank  can 
exempt  her  from  an  observation  of  the  laws  of  the  former, 
from  an  attention  to  the  duties  of  the  latter.  To  neglect  both 
is  to  violate  the  sacred  statutes  of  social  happiness,  and  to 
frustrate  the  all-wise  intention  of  that  Providence  who  framed 
them." 

In  the  second  inscription,  made  with  acknowledgment  to 
Miss  Owensong,  Allan  takes  all  the  precautions  of  a,  Coelebs 
to  make  certain  that  at  his  table  "the  eulogist  of  female  ignor 
ance  might  dine  in  security  against  the  intrusion  and  vanity 
of  erudition."  The  inscription  reads: 

"The  liberal  cultivation  of  the  female  mind  is  the  best  secur 
ity  for  the  virtues  of  the  female  heart;  and  genius,  talents  and 
grace,  where  regulated  by  prudence  and  governed  by  good 
sense,  are  never  incompatible  with  domestic  qualities  or  meek 
and  modest  virtues.'* 

On  the  third  fly-leaf,  this  double  pronouncement  is  pre 
sented  to  "Miss  Maria  Gansevoort"  and  "from  A.  M."  Allan 
had  doubtless  learned  from  Mrs.  Chapone  that  "our  feelings 
are  not  given  us  for  ornament,  but  to  spur  us  on  to  right  ac 
tion."  And  Miss  Maria  may  have  taken  to  heart  Mrs.  Cha- 
pone's  dictum  that  "compassion  is  not  impressed  upon  the 
human  heart,  only  to  adorn  the  fair  face  with  tears  and  to 
give  an  agreeable  languor  to  the  eyes."  There  survives  no 
trace  of  a  record  of  Allan's  indulging  emotions  for  decorative 
purposes.  How  far  his  sentiments  were  moved  in  "right  ac 
tion"  to  melt  Miss  Maria  to  becoming  compassion  can  never 


60  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

be  known.  During  the  months  immediately  before  the  mar 
riage,  however,  the  even  tenor  of  Allan's  journal  is  jolted  by 
the  unusual  acknowledgment  of  the  existence  of  his  sisters, 
and  the  bald  mention  of  a  specified  number  of  miles  covered 
in  a  "pleasure  wagon."  Miss  Maria,  when  not  his  undisputed 
property  by  rites  of  holy  matrimony,  he  never  mentions  in  his 
journal. 

Maria  kept  no  journal;  if  she  presented  Allan  with  in 
scribed  volumes,  Allan  has  eradicated  all  such  breaches  of 
maiden  modesty.  The  only  intimate  records  of  Maria  that 
survive  are  three  of  her  letters,  comments  upon  her  in  Allan's 
letters,  Melville's  elaborate  idealisation  of  her  in  the  person 
of  the  mother  of  Pierre,  and  a  vague  memory  handed  down 
orally  by  her  descendants. 

Maria  was  born  in  1791  and  died  in  1871.  Of  her  girlhood, 
little  or  nothing  is  very  specifically  known.  After  Melville's 
marriage,  she  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  remaining  years  of 
her  life  as  a  dependant  in  his  household,  and  the  oral  tradi 
tions  that  survive  of  her  do  not  halo  her  memory.  She  is  re 
membered  in  such  terms  as  "cold/'  "worldly,"  "formal," 
"haughty"  and  "proper" ;  as  putting  the  highest  premium  upon 
appearances;  as  frigidly  contemptuous  of  Melville's  domestic 
economy,  and  of  the  home-made  clothes  of  his  four  children. 
Though  she  condescended  eight  times  to  motherhood,  such  was 
her  animal  vigour  and  her  ferocity  of  pride  that  she  preserved 
to  her  death  a  remarkable  regality  of  appearance.  She  is  said 
to  have  made  a  completely  competent  wife  to  Allan,  superior 
both  to  any  undue  intellectual  distractions,  and  to  any  of  the 
demoralisations  of  domesticity.  She  managed  his  household, 
she  bore  and  reared  his  children,  and  she  did  both  with  a  vig 
orous  and  unruffled  efficiency,  without  sign  of  worry  or  regret. 
There  persists  the  story — significant  even  if  apocryphal — that 
each  afternoon,  enthroned  upon  a  high  four-poster,  she  would 
nap  in  order  to  freshen  herself  for  Allan's  evening  arrival,  her 
children  seated  silently  on  a  row  of  low  stools  ranged  on  the 
floor  at  the  side  of  her  bed.  In  his  death,  as  in  his  life,  she 
cherished  the  image  of  Allan — with  that  of  her  father,  Gen 
eral  Gansevoort — as  the  mirror  of  manly  perfection. 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    61 

In  Pierre,  Melville  is  said  to  have  drawn  an  essentially  ac 
curate  portrait  of  his  mother  in  the  character  and  person  of 
Mrs.  Glendinning.  Mrs.  Glendinning  is  presented  as  a 
"haughty  widow;  a  lady  who  externally  furnished  a  singular 
example  of  the  preservative  and  beautifying  influences  of  un 
fluctuating  rank,  health,  and  wealth,  when  joined  to  a  fine  mind 
of  medium  culture,  uncankered  by  any  inconsolable  grief,  and 
never  worn  by  sordid  cares.  In  mature  age,  the  rose  still 
miraculously  clung  to  her  cheek;  litheness  had  not  yet  com 
pletely  uncoiled  itself  from  her  waist,  nor  smoothness  un- 
scrolled  itself  from  her  brow,  nor  diamondness  departed  from 
her  eyes."  Proudly  conscious  of  this  preservation,  never, 
even  in  the  most  intimate  associations  of  life,  did  she  ever 
appear  "in  any  dishabille  that  was  not  eminently  becoming." 
For  "she  was  vividly  aware  how  immense  was  that  influence, 
which,  even  in  the  closest  ties  of  the  heart,  the  merest  appear 
ances  make  upon  the  mind."  And  to  her  pride  of  appearance 
she  added  "her  pride  of  birth,  her  pride  of  affluence,  her  pride 
of  purity,  and  all  the  Semiramian  pride  of  woman:"  a  pride 
"which  in  a  life  of  nearly  fifty  years  had  never  betrayed  her 
into  a  single  published  impropriety,  or  caused  her  one  known 
pang  of  the  heart."  .  .  .  "Infinite  Haughtiness  had  first  fash 
ioned  her;  and  then  the  haughty  world  had  further  moulded 
her;  nor  had  a  haughty  Ritual  omitted  to  finish  her."  Nor 
must  Allan's  moralisings,  and  Dr.  Akenside,  and  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld,  and  Mrs.  Chapone,  be  denied  their  due  credit  in  con 
tributing  to  the  finished  product. 

Between  Maria  and  her  son  there  existed  a  striking  per 
sonal  resemblance.  From  his  mother,  too,  Melville  seems  to 
have  inherited  a  constitution  of  very  remarkable  vigour,  and  all 
the  white  intensity  of  the  Gansevoort  aptitude  for  anger.  '  But 
here  the  resemblance  ceased.  In  the  youthful  Pierre,  Mrs. 
Glendinning  felt  "a  triumphant  maternal  pride,"  for  in  her 
son  "she  saw  her  own  graces  strangely  translated  into  the  op 
posite  sex."  But  of  his  mother's  love  for  him,  Pierre  enter 
tained  precocious  and  Meredithian  suspicions:  "She  loveth 
me,  ay; — but  why?  Had  I  been  cast  in  a  cripple's  mould,  how 
then?  Now  do  I  remember  that  in  her  most  caressing  love, 


62  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

there  ever  gleamed  some  scaly,  glittering  folds  of  pride.  .  .  . 
Before  my  glass  she  stands — pride's  priestess — and  to  her 
mirrored  image,  not  to  me,  she  offers  up  her  offering  of 
kisses." 

Strangely  must  she  have  been  baffled  by  this  mirrored  image 
of  herself, — fascinated,  and  at  the  same  time  contemptuously 
revolted.  What  sympathy,  what  understanding  could  she  know 
for  this  thing  of  her  blood  that  in  obscurity,  in  poverty,  a  fail 
ure  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  returned  from  barbarism  to  dream 
wild  dreams  that  were  increasingly  unsalable?  As  a  boy,  all 
his  passionate  cravings  for  sympathy,  for  affection,  were  re 
buffed  by  her  haughty  reserve,  and  recoiled  within  him. 
Fatherless  and  so  mothered,  he  felt  with  Pierre,  "that  deep 
in  him  lurked  some  divine  unidentifiableness,  that  owed  no 
earthly  kith  or  kin.  Yet  was  this  feeling  entirely  lonesome 
and  orphan-like.  He  felt  himself  driven  out  an  infant  Ish- 
mael  into  the  desert,  with  no  maternal  Hagar  to  accompany 
and  comfort  him."  In  Redburn,  with  the  mother  image  like 
a  fury  in  his  heart,  he  describes  himself  as  "a  sort  of  Ish- 
mael."  "Call  me  Ishmael,"  is  the  striking  opening  sentence 
of  Moby-Dick;  and  its  no  less  striking  close :  "On  the  second 
day,  a  sail  drew  near,  nearer,  and  picked  me  up  at  last.  It 
was  the  devious  cruising  Rachel,  that  in  retracing  search  after 
her  missing  children,  only  found  another  orphan."  Of  his 
mother  he  is  reported  to  have  said  in  later  life:  "She  hated 
me." 

It  seems  not  altogether  fantastic  to  contend  that  the  Gorgon 
face  that  Melville  bore  in  his  heart;  the  goading  impalpable 
image  that  made  his  whole  life  a  pilgrimage  of  despair:  that 
was  the  cold  beautiful  face  of  his  mother,  Maria  Gansevoort. 
One  shudders  to  think  how  such  a  charge  would  have  vio 
lated  Maria's  proprieties.  But  in  the  treacherous  ambiguities 
of  Pierre,  Melville  himself  hovers  on  the  verge  of  this  insight. 
Pierre  is  haunted  by  a  mysterious  face,  which  he  thus  in 
vokes  :  "The  face ! — the  face ! — The  face  steals  down  upon  me. 
Mysterious  girl!  who  art  thou?  Take  thy  thin  fingers  from 
me ;  I  am  affianced,  and  not  to  thee.  Surely,  thou  lovest  not  me  ? 
— that  were  most  miserable  for  thee,  and  me.  What,  who  art 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    63 

thou  ?  Oh !  wretched  vagueness — too  familiar  to  me,  yet  inex 
plicable, — unknown,  utterly  unknown!"  To  the  mind  of 
Pierre  it  was  a  face  "backward  hinting  of  some  irrevocable 
sin ;  forward,  pointing  to  some  inevitable  ill ;  hovering  between 
Tartarian  misery  and  Paradisaic  beauty."  In  Pierre,  this 
face,  "compounded  so  of  hell  and  heaven,"  is  the  instrument 
by  which  the  memory  of  Pierre's  father  is  desecrated,  Pierre's 
mother  is  driven  to  insanity  and  death,  and  Pierre  himself  is 
utterly  ruined.  Pierre  is  a  book  to  send  a  Freudian  into  rav 
ishment. 

Allan  Melville,  aged  thirty-two,  and  Maria  Gansevoort,  nine 
years  younger,  were  married  on  the  fourth  of  October,  1814. 
In  his  journal,  Allan  has  left  this  record  of  their  wedding- 
trip. 

October  4,  1814 — Left  Albany  at  n  A.M.  in  a  hack  witK 
Mrs.  M.  and  Helen  (his  youngest  sister,  in 
her  sixteenth  year).  Dined  at  Stottard's, 
Lapan,  &  slept  at  Beths  Lebanon. 

October  5,  1814 — Left  Lebanon  at  9,  dined  at  Pittsfield  & 
slept  at  Worthington. 

October  6,  1814 — Left  Worthington  at  y2  past  9,  dined  at 
Southampton  &  slept  at  Belchertown. 

October  J,  1814 — Left  Belchertown  at  9,  dined  at  Brook- 
field  &  slept  at  Worcester. 

October  8f  1814 — Left  Worcester  at  y2  past  9,  dined  at  Farm- 
ingham  &  arrived  at  Boston  at  5  P.M. 

For  five  years  following  this  initial  daily  shifting  of  'bed 
and  board,  Allan  and.  his  wife  lived  in  Albany.  The  monotony 
of  this  residence  was  broken  by  the  birth  of  two  children,— 
Gansevoort,  and  Helen  Marie, — and  Allan's  trip  to  Europe  in 
the  spring  of  1818:  the  enforced  business  trip,  already  men 
tioned,  that  took  him  to  the  home  of  his  titled  Scotch  cousins. 
Upon  his  return  he  resolved  to  leave  Albany,  and  settle  in 
what  he  appreciatively  called  "the  greatest  universal  mart  in 
the  world."  On  May  12,  1819,  he  records  in  his  journal: 
"Commenced  Housekeeping  at  No.  6  Park  Street,  New  York. 


64  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Mrs.  M.  &  the  children  who  had  been  to  a  visit  to  her  Mother 
at  Albany  since  6th  April,  having  joined  me  on  this  day,  to 
my  great  joy." 

Three  months  after  Allan's  moving  to  "the  greatest  uni 
versal  mart  in  the  world/'  Maria  presented  him  with  a  third 
child,  and  second  son,  who  was  christened  after  Maria's 
brother,  Herman.  At  this  time,  Allan  seems  to  have  accepted 
the  excitements  of  childbirth  so  casually  that  Melville's  birth 
passed  unrecorded  in  his  father's  journal.  The  first  surviv 
ing  record  of  Melville's  existence  is  unromantic  enough.  In 
a  letter  dated  October  7,  1820,  Allan  wrote:  "Helen  Marie 
suffers  most  from  what  we  term  the  whooping  cough  but  which 
I  am  sometimes  suspicious  is  only  influenza.  But  Gansevoort 
and  Herman  are  as  yet  slightly  affected." 

At  this  time,  Allan  seems  to  have  prospered  in  business,  for 
on  September  20,  1820,  he  reported  to  his  mother :  "We  have 
hired  a  cook  &  nurse  and  only  want  a  waiter  to  complete  our 
domestic  establishment." 

Herman's  infancy  seems  to  have  been  untroubled  by  any 
event  more  startling  than  a  growing  aggregation  of  brothers 
and  sisters,  occasional  trips  to  Boston,  and  periodic  pilgrim 
ages  to  Albany  with  his  mother  to  be  exhibited  to  his  grand 
mother  Gansevoort.  There  are  frequent  references  to  his  ail 
ing  health.  In  April,  1824,  Allan  complains  that  "Gansevoort 
has  lost  much  of  his  ruddy  appearance,  while  Herman  who  has 
never  entirely  regained  his  health  again  loo'ks  pale,  thin  and 
dejected." 

At  this  time  Allan  signed  "a  4  yrs.  lease  at  $300  per  annum 
freer  of  taxes,  for  a  new  brick  2  story  house  replete  with  con 
veniences,  to  be  handsomely  furnished  in  the  most  modern 
style  under  my  own  direction  &  a  vacant  lot  of  equal  size  at 
tached  to  it  which  will  be  invaluable  as  a  play  ground  for  the 
children.  It  is  situated  in  Bleecker,  the  first  south,  and  par 
allel  to  Bond  St.  ...  An  open,  dry  &  elevated  location  equi 
distant  from  Broadway  &  the  Bowery,  in  plain  sight  of  both 
&  almost  uniting  the  advantages  of  town  &  country,  but  its 
distance  from  my  store,  nearly  two  miles,  will  compel  me  to 
dine  from  my  family  most  of  the  time,  a  serious  objection  to 


MARIA    OAXSKVOORT    MELVILLE 


In  1865 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    65 

us  all,  but  we  shall  be  amply  compensated  by  a  residence  which 
will  obviate  the  necessity  of  their  leaving  town  every  summer, 
which  deprives  me  altogether  of  their  society.  I  shall  also  re 
move  professionally  on  the  ist  of  May  to  No.  102  Pearl  St.  up 
stairs  in  the  very  focus  of  Business  &  surrounded  by  the  auc 
tion  rooms  which  have  become  the  Rialto  of  the  modern  mer 
chants  but  where  I  dare  say  even  Shylock  would  be  shy  of 
making  his  appearance." 

By  December  29,  1824,  we  hear  of  rferman  that  "he  at 
tends  school  regularly  but  does  not  appear  so  fond  of  his 
Book  as  to  injure  his  health.  He  has  turned  into  a  great  tease 
&  daily  puts  Gansevoort's  patience  to  flight  who  cannot  bear 
to  be  plagued  by  such  a  little  fellow." 

On  the  same  date,  Maria  writes  to  her  brother  about  pick 
ling  oysters,  500  of  which  she  sent  to  Albany  as  a  gift  to  his 
family.  The  picture  of  her  life  that  she  then  gives  is  evidence 
that  she  had  cherished  the  counsels  that  "her  friend  A.  M." 
had  appended  to  Mrs.  Chapone.  She  tells  of  a  call  she  re 
ceived  before  eleven  o'clock.  "Although  the  hour  was  early, 
all  things  were  neat  &  in  order  &  my  ladyship  was  dressing 
herself  preparatory  to  sitting  down  to  her  sewing."  She 
boasts  of  this  fact,  she  says,  in  shamed  recollection  of  the  time 
her  brother  and  Mr.  Smyth  were  ushered  into  a  parlour  out  of 
order.  "It  is  the  first  time  a  thing  of  this  kind  has  ever  hap 
pened  to  me  &  for  my  credit  as  a  good  housekeeper,  I  hope  it 
will  be  the  last."  In  conclusion  she  reports:  "This  afternoon 
Mr.  M.  &  myself,  induced  by  the  enlivening  rays  of  the  setting 
sun,  strolled  down  the  Bowery  &  after  an  agreeable  walk  re 
turned  home  with  renovated  spirits." 

In  December,  1825,  Allan  is  moved  to  "lament  little  Her 
man's  melancholy  situation,  but  we  trust  in  humble  confidence 
that  the  <§<^j©  of  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  will  yet  restore 
him."  By  the  following  May,  Allan's  humble  confidence 
seems  to  have  been  rewarded  not  only  by  Herman's  recovery, 
but  by  the  birth  of  another  child.  In  the  midst  of  a  business 
letter — the  usual  repository  of  Allan's  raptures — he  with  un 
wonted  vivacity  so  celebrates  his  paternal  felicity :  "The  Lovely 
Six ! !  are  all  well,  and,  while  the  youngest  though  both  last  & 


66  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

least  is  a  sweet  child  of  promise,  &  bids  fair  to  become  the 
fairest  of  the  fair — so  much  for  affection,  now  for  business." 

On  August  10,  1826,  Melville  was  sent  out  upon  his  first 
trip  from  home  unaccompanied  by  his  parents.  His  destina 
tion  was  his  mother's  people  in  Albany,  and  his  custodian  dur 
ing  the  trip  a  Mr.  Walker.  Allan  shifts  his  responsibility  for 
his  son  on  the  shoulders  of  his  brother-in-law,  Peter  Ganse- 
voort,  in  these  terms : 

"I  now  consign  to  your  especial  care  &  patronage  my  beloved 
son  Herman,  an  honest  hearted  double-rooted  Knickerbocker 
of  the  true  Albany  stamp,  who,  I  trust,  will  do  equal  honour  in 
due  time  to  ancestry,  parentage  &  kindred.  He  is  very  back 
ward  in  speech  &  somewhat  slow  in  comprehension,  but  you 
will  find  him  as  far  as  he  understands  men  and  things  both 
solid  &  profound  &  of  a  docile  &  amiable  disposition.  If 
agreeable,  he  will  pass  the  vacation  with  his  grandmother  & 
yourself  &  I  hope  he  may  prove  a  pleasant  auxiliary  to  the 
Family  circle — I  depend  much  on  your  kind  attention  to  our 
dear  Boy  who  will  be  truly  grateful  to  the  least  favour — let 
him  avoid  green  fruit  &  unseasonable  exposure  to  the  Sun  & 
heat,  and  having  taken  such  good  care  of  Gansevoort  last  Sum 
mer  I  commit  his  Brother  to  the  same  hands  with  unreserved 
confidence.  &  with  love  to  our  good  mother  and  yourself  in 
which  Maria,  Mary  &  the  children  most  cordially  join  I  re 
main  very  truly  Your  Friend  &  Brother,  Allan  Melville." 

At  the  foot  of  this  document,  Allan  appended  in  pencil : 
"please  turn  over."  On  the  reverse  of  the  letter  is  scribbled  a 
breathless  last  request :  "Have  the  goodness  to  procure  a  pair 
of  shoes  for  Herman,  time  being  insufficient  to  have  a  pair 
made  here." 

When  Allan  here  pronounces  Melville  "very  backward  in 
speech  &  somewhat  slow  in  comprehension,"  he  puts  his  son 
in  a  large  class  of  genius  conspicuous  for  a  deferred  revela 
tion  of  promising  intelligence.  Scott,  occupied  in  building  up 
romances,  was  dismissed  as  a  dunce;  Hume,  the  youthful 
thinker,  was  described  by  his  mother  as  "uncommon  weak 
minded."  Goldsmith  was  a  stupid  child;  Fanny  Burney  did 
not  know  her  letters  at  the  age  of  eight.  Byron  showed  no 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    67 

aptitude  for  school  work.  And  Chatterton,  up  to  the  age  of 
six  and  a  half,  was,  on  the  authority  of  his  mother,  "little 
better  than  an  absolute  fool."  Allan  scorned  to  take  solace 
from  such  facts,  however.  He  consoled  himself  with  the  fact 
that  though  his  son  was  dull,  he  was  at  least  "docile  &  amiable. " 

Melville  spent  the  summer  of  1826  with  the  Gansevoorts. 
And  he  looked  back  upon  it  as  perhaps  the  most  fortunate 
privilege  of  his  youth,  that  this  first  visit  to  Albany  set  the 
precedent  for  a  whole  series  of  similar  summers.  He  is  ideal 
ising  from  his  own  experience  when  he  says  of  Pierre :  "It 
had  been  his  choice  fate  to  have  been  born  and  nurtured  in  the 
country,  surrounded  by  scenery  whose  uncommon  loveliness 
was  the  perfect  mould  of  a  delicate  and  poetic  mind;  while  the 
popular  names  of  its  finest  features  appealed  to  the  proudest 
patriotic  and  family  associations  of  the  historic  line  of  Glen- 
dinning."  Nor  does  he  hesitate  to  reiterate  that  Pierre's  was 
a  "choice  fate" :  "For  to  a  noble  American  youth  this  indeed 
— more  than  in  any  other  land — this  indeed  is  a  most  rare  and 
choice  lot."  Each  summer,  for  as  long  as  his  school  vacations 
would  permit,  Melville  shared  the  choice  lot  of  Pierre.  But 
Allan,  unconverted  to  'Melville's  Wordsworthian  creed,  regu 
larly  recalled  his  son  to  the  city  with  the  opening  of  school. 

This  is  the  recall  for  the  year  1826,  dated  "12  Sept.  Tues 
day,  4  P.M." :  "We  expect  Gansevoort  on  Sunday,  at  far- 
therest,  when  we  wish  Herman  also  to  be  here,  that  they  may 
recommence  their  studies  together  on  Monday  next,  with  equal 
chances  of  preferment,  &  without  any  feelings  of  jealousy  or 
ideas  of  favoritism — besides  they  may  thus  acquire  a  practical 
lesson  whose  influence  may  endure  forever,  for  if  they  under 
stand  early,  that  inclination  must  always  yield  to  Duty,  it  will 
become  a  matter  of  course  when  their  vacations  expire  to  bid  a 
fond  adieu  to  friends  &  amusements,  &  return  home  cheerfully 
to  their  books,  &  they  will  consequently  imbibe  habits  of  Or 
der  &  punctuality,  which  bear  sweet  blossoms  in  the  dawn  of 
life,  golden  fruits  in  'the  noon  of  manhood'  &  a  rich  harvest 
for  the  garners  of  old  age — business  is  about  as  dull  and  un 
profitable  as  the  most  bitter  foe  to  general  prosperity,  if  such 
a  being  exists  in  human  shape,  could  desire  it,  &  it  requires 


68  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

a  keener  vision  than  mine,  to  discern  among  the  signs  of  the 
times,  any  real  symptoms  of  future  improvement." 

The  summer  of  1827  Melville  spent  with  his  grandparents 
in  Boston ;  the  two  following  summers  in  Albany. 

On  February  28,  1828,  Allan  reported  to  his  brother-in-law 
Peter  Gansevoort :  "We  have  taken  a  house  on  Broadway  (No. 
675 — if  I  mistake  not)  for  5  years  @  $575  without  taxes — 
being  the  2d  beyond  the  marble  buildings  &  nearly  opposite 
Bond  Street.  The  house  is  a  modern  2  stories  built  4  years 
since  for  the  owner  &  has  only  been  occupied  by  his  family. 
The  lot  is  200  feet  deep  through  to  Mercer  St.,  Maria  is 
charmed  with  the  house  &  situation." 

But  Allan  never  lived  to  see  this  lease  expire.  The  dull 
business  of  which  he  earlier  complained  settled  upon  him,  and 
in  1830  the  prospects  in  New  York  were  so  hopeless  that  he 
moved  back  to  Albany,  to  die  two  years  later,  leaving  his  wife 
and  eight  children  practically  penniless. 

But  before  Allan  moved  away  from  New  York,  Herman 
had  time  to  write  the  earliest  manuscript  of  his  that  survives. 
It  reads : 

nth  of  October,  1828. 
DEAR  GRANDMOTHER 

This  is  the  third  letter  that  I  ever  wrote  so  you  must  not 
think  it  very  good.  I  now  study  geography,  gramar,  writing, 
Speaking,  Spelling,  and  read  in  the  Scientific  class  book.  I 
enclose  in  this  letter  a  drawing  for  my  dear  grandmother. 
Give  my  love  to  grandmamma,  Uncle  Peter  and  Aunt  Mary. 
And  my  Sisters  and  also  to  allan, 

Your  affectionate  grandson 

HERMAN  MELVILLE. 

In  Redburn,  Melville  speaks  "of  those  delightful  days  be 
fore  my  father  was  a  bankrupt,  and  died,  and  we  moved  from 
the  city" ;  or  again,  speaking  of  Allan :  "he  had  been  shaken 
by  many  storms  of  adversity,  and  at  last  died  a  bankrupt." 
Allan's  journal,  however,  which  he  kept  until  within  a  few 
months  of  his  death,  is  proudly  superior  to  anything  suggestive 
of  the  outrageousness  of  fortune:  its  hard  glazed  surface  be- 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    69 

trays  to  the  end  no  crack  in  the  veneer.  Beyond  a  persistent 
tradition,  and  Melville's  iterated  statement,  no  further  evidence 
of  Allan's  financial  reverses  has  transpired. 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  after  Allan's  death  his  family 
found  themselves  in  straitened  circumstances.  After  1830, 
the  most  specific  evidence  known  to  exist  about  the  where 
abouts  and  condition  of  Melville's  family  is  preserved  in  old 
Albany  Directories,  as  follows: 

1830:  no  Melvilles  mentioned. 

1831 :  Melville,  Allan,  446  s.  Market. 

house  338  n.  Market. 
1832:  Melville,  Gansevoort,  fur  store,  364  s.  Market. 

Melville,  widow  Maria,  cor.  of  n.  Market  &  Steuben. 
1833 :  Melville,  Gansevoort,  fur  store,  364  s.  Market. 

Melville,  widow  Maria,  282  n.  Market. 
1834:  Melville,  Gansevoort,  fur  and  cap  store,  364  s.  Market, 

res.  3  Clinton  Square  n.  Pearl. 
Melville,  Herman,  clerk  in  N.  Y.  State  Bank,  res.  3 

Clinton  Square  n.  Pearl. 

Melville,  widow  Maria,  3  Clinton  Square  n.  Pearl. 
1835 :  Melville,  Gansevoort,  fur  and  cap  store,  364  s.  Market, 

res.  3  Clinton  Square  n.  Pearl. 

Melville,  Herman,  clerk  at  364  s.  Market,  res.  3  Clin 
ton  Square  n.  Pearl. 
Melville,  widow  Maria,  3  Clinton  Square  n.  Pearl. 

After  1835  the  family  scattered,  Melville  to  begin  his  wan 
derings  on  land  and  sea, — Gansevoort  to  drift  about  Albany 
for  two  years,  Maria  and  the  rest  of  the  children  to  move  to 
Lansingburg — now  a  part  of  Albany. 

The  publication  of  the  Celebration  of  the  Semi-Centennial 
Anniversary  of  the  Albany  Academy  (Albany,  1862)  in  its 
list  of  alumni,  and  the  date  of  their  entrance,  offers  the  fol 
lowing  record : 

1831:  Melville,  Allan. 
1830:  Melville,  Gansevoort. 
1830:  Melville,  Herman. 


70  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

This  Semi-Centennial  Anniversary  Celebration  took  place 
in  Tweedle  Hall,  which,  so  says  the  publication,  "was  crowded 
with  an  appropriate  audience."  "The  meeting  was  presided 
over  by  the  Honourable  PETER  GANSEVOORT,  the  President  of 
the  Board  of  Trustees,"  the  publication  goes  on  to  say,  "and 
by  his  side  were  his  associates  and  the  guests  of  the  festival, 
among  whom  was  warmly  welcomed  HERMAN  MELVILLE, 
whose  reputation  as  an  author  has  honoured  the  Academy, 
world-wide."  As  Melville  sat  there,  "the  Rev.  Doc.  FERRIS 
.  .  .  made  prayer  to  Heaven  the  source  of  that  knowledge 
which  shall  not  vanish  away;"  Orlando  Mead,  LL.D.,  read  a 
Historical  Discourse;  and  "at  successive  periods  the  exercises 
were  diversified  by  the  music  of  Home,  Sweet  Home  or  Rest, 
Spirit,  Rest,  and  of  other  appropriate  harmonies."  What  rec 
ollections  of  his  school-days  at  the  Albany  Academy  were  then 
passing  through  Melville's  head,  we  haven't  sufficient  knowl 
edge  of  his  schooling  to  guess.  As  part  of  the  celebration, 
Alexander  W.  Bradford,  who  was  a  student  at  the  Academy 
between  1825  and  1832,  spoke  of  the  "domestic  discords  and 
fights  between  the  Latins  and  the  English,  and  the  more  fierce 
and  bitter  foreign  conflicts  waged  between  the  Hills  and  the 
Creeks,  the  latter  being  a  pugnacious  tribe  of  barbarians  who 
inhabited  the  shores  of  Fox  Creek;"  of  "the  weekly  exhibi 
tions  in  the  Gymnasium  grand  with  the  beauty  of  Albany;" 
of  "the  lectures  and  experiments  in  chemistry,  which  being 
in  the  evening,  were  favoured  by  the  presence  of  young 
ladies  as  well  as  gentlemen."  In  what  capacity,  if  any, 
Melville  figured  in  these  activities  there  is  no  way  of 
knowing. 

Dr.  Henry  Hun,  now  President  of  the  Albany  Academy,  in 
answer  to  a  request  for  information  about  Melville,  answers : 
"Unfortunately,  the  records  of  the  Albany  Academy  were 
burned  in  1888.  It  is  impossible  to  say  how  long  he  remained 
in  the  school  or  what  results  he  achieved.  He  probably  took 
the  Classical  Course,  as  most  of  the  brighter  boys  took  it.  It 
was  really  a  Collegiate  Course,  and  the  Head-master  (or  Prin 
cipal  as  he  was  then  called)  Dr.  T.  Romeyn  Beck  was  an  ex 
traordinary  man,  but  one  who  did  not  spare  the  rod,  but  gave 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    71 

daily  exhibitions  in  its  use."     In  a  postscript  Dr.  Hun  adds: 
"It  was  a  God-fearing  school." 

Joseph  Henry,  at  one  time  teacher  at  the  Albany  Academy, 
later  head  of  the  Smithsonian  Institute,  in  an  address  before 
the  Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science,  in  session  in 
Albany  in  1851,  said  of  Melville's  Alma  Mater:  "The  Albany 
Academy  was  and  still  is  one  of  the  first,  if  not  the  very  first, 
institution  of  its  kind  in  the  United  States.  It  early  opposed 
the  pernicious  maxim  that  a  child  should  be  taught  nothing 
but  what  it  could  perfectly  understand,  and  that  the  sole  ob 
ject  of  instruction  is  to  teach  a  child  to  think." 

Since  Melville  was  in  1834  employed  as  clerk  in  the  New 
York  State  Bank  (a  post  he  doubtless  owed  to  his  uncle,  Peter 
Gansevoort,  who  was  one  of  the  Trustees)  he  must  have 
ceased  to  enjoy  the  advantages  of  the  Albany  Academy  before 
that  date.  During  the  time  of  Melville's  attendance,  the  same 
texts  were  used  by  all  students  alike  during  their  first  three 
years  at  the  Albany  Academy.  This,  then,  would  seem  to  be 
a  list  of  the  texts  (offered  by  the  courtesy  of  Dr.  Hun)  studied 
by  Melville : 

ist  Year: 

Latin  Grammar 

Historia  Sacra 

Turner's  Exercises   (begun) 

Latin  Reader 

Irving's  Universal  History 
2d  Year: 

Latin  Reader  continued 

Turner's  Exercises 

Cornelius  Nepos 

Irving's  Grecian  and  Roman  Histories 

Roman  Antiquities 

3d  Year: 

Caesar,  Ovid,  Latin  Prosody 

Turner's  Exercises,  Translations 

Irving's  Grecian  Antiquities 

Mythology  and  Biography 

Greek  Grammar 


72  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

J.  E.  A.  Smith,  in  the  Biographical  Sketch  of  Herman  Mel 
ville  that  in  1891  he  wrote  for  The  Evening  Journal  of  Pitts- 
field,  Massachusetts,  says  of  Melville's  school-days : 

''In  1835,  Professor  Charles  E.  West  .  .  .  was  president 
of  the  Albany  Classical  Institute  for  boys,  and  Herman  Mel 
ville  became  one  of  his  pupils.  Professor  West  now  remem 
bers  him  as  a  favourite  pupil,  not  distinguished  for  mathe 
matics,  but  very  much  so  in  the  writing  of  'themes'  or  'com 
positions'  and  fond  of  doing  it,  while  the  great  majority  of 
pupils  dreaded  it  as  a  task,  and  would  shirk  it  if  they  could." 

In  1835,  Melville  was  clerk  in  his  brother's  shop.  If  J.  E. 
A.  Smith's  record  is  accurate,  Melville  was  at  the  time  alter 
nating  business  with  education. 

The  greater  part  of  1836  was  spent  by  Melville,  according 
to  his  own  account,  already  quoted,  in  the  household  of  his 
uncle  Major  Thomas  Melville,  at  Pittsfield,  Massachusetts. 

J.  E.  A.  Smith  in  his  Biographical  Sketch  so  supplements 
Melville's  account:  "Besides  his  labours  with  his  uncle  in  the 
hay  field,  he  was  for  one  term  teacher  of  the  common  school 
in  the  'Sykes  district'  under  Washington  mountain,  of  which 
he  had  some  racy  memories — one  of  them  of  a  rebellion  in 
which  some  of  the  bigger  boys  undertook  to  'lick'  him — with 
what  results,  those  who  remember  his  physique  and  character 
can  well  imagine.'' 

The  only  other  records  we  have  of  Melville's  boyhood  and 
early  youth  are  the  scattered  recollections  preserved  in  his  pub 
lished  works.  Such,  throughout  his  life,  were  the  veering 
whims  of  his  blood,  that  he  recalled  these  earlier  years  with  no 
unity  of  retrospect.  The  confessions  of  St.  Augustine  are  a 
classical  warning  of  the  untrustworthiness  of  even  the  most 
conscientious  memory.  To  call  memory  the  mother  of  the 
Muses,  is  too  frequently  but  a  partial  and  euphemistic  naming 
of  her  offspring.  So  when  Melville  writes  of  early  years, 
now  in  rhapsody  and  then  in  bitterness,  the  result,  though 
always  valuable  autobiography,  is  not  invariably,  of  course, 
strict  history. 

Some  of  his  idealisations  of  his  life  with  the  Gansevoorts 
have  already  been  given.  Through  the  refracting  films  of 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    73 

memory  he  at  times  looked  back  upon  "those  far  descended 
Dutch  meadows  ....  steeped  in  a  Hindooish  haze"  and  proud 
of  his  name  and  his  "double  revolutionary  descent,"  he  viewed 
himself  with  Miltonic  self-esteem  as  a  "fine,  proud,  loving, 
docile,  vigorous  boy."  And  there  is  no  reason  to  suspect  him 
of  perverting  the  truth.  Behind  these  are  "certain  shadowy 
reminiscences  of  wharves,  and  warehouses,  and  shipping, 
which  a  residence  in  a  seaport  during  early  childhood  had 
supplied  me."  And  with  them  he  blended  remembrances  "of 
winter  evenings  in  New  York,  by  the  well-remembered  sea- 
coal  fire,  when  my  father  used  to  tell  my  brother  and  me  of 
the  monstrous  waves  at  sea,  mountain  high ;  of  the  masts  bend 
ing  like  twigs ;  and  all  about  Havre,  and  Liverpool,  and  about 
going  up  into  the  ball  of  St.  Paul's  in  London.  Indeed,  dur 
ing  my  early  life,  most  of  my  thoughts  of  the  sea  were  con 
nected  with  the  land;  but  with  fine  old  lands,  full  of  mossy 
cathedrals  and  churches,  and  long,  narrow  crooked  streets 
without  sidewalks,  and  lined  with  strange  houses.  And 
especially  I  tried  hard  to  think  how  such  places  must  look  on 
rainy  days  and  Saturday  afternoons ;  and  whether  indeed  they 
did  have  rainy  days  and  Saturdays  there,  just  as  we  did  here, 
and  whether  the  boys  went  to  school  there,  and  studied  geog 
raphy  and  wore  their  shirt  collars  turned  over,  and  tied  with 
a  black  ribbon ;  and  whether  their  papas  allowed  them  to  wear 
boots  instead  of  shoes,  which  I  so  much  disliked,  for  boots 
looked  so  manly." 

Melville  confesses  here  to  a  precocious  exercise  of  the  poetic 
imagination :  a  type  of  imagination  for  which  the  consistent 
disappointments  of  his  life  were  to  be  the  invariable  penalty. 
In  the  prosaic  man,  in  Benjamin  Franklin,  for  example,  the 
imagination  does  not,  as  it  did  with  Melville,  enrich  the  im 
mediate  facts  of  experience  with  amplifications  so  vivid  that 
the  reality  is  in  danger  of  being  submerged.  In  the  prosaic 
man,  the  imagination  works  in  a  safely  utilitarian  fashion, 
combining  images  for  practical  purposes  under  the  supervision 
of  a  matter-of-fact  judgment.  And  though  it  may  indeed 
bring  the  lightning  from  the  clouds,  it  makes  the  transfer  not 
to  glorify  the  firmament,  but  to  discipline  the  lightning  and 


74  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

to  make  church  steeples  safe  from  the  wrath  of  God.  Mel 
ville's  was  the  type  of  imagination  whose  extreme  operation  is 
exemplified  in  William  Blake.  "I  assert  for  myself,"  said 
Blake,  "that  I  do  not  behold  the  outward  creation,  and  that  it 
is  to  me  hindrance  and  not  action.  'What,'  it  will  be  ques 
tioned,  'when  the  sun  rises,  do  you  not  see  a  round  disk  of  fire 
something  like  a  guinea  ?'  Oh !  no  !  no !  I  see  an  innumerable 
company  of  the  heavenly  host,  crying,  'Holy,  holy,  holy  is  the 
Lord  God  Almighty!'  I  question  not  my  corporeal  eye  any 
more  than  I  would  question  a  window  concerning  a  sight.  I 
look  through  it,  and  not  with  it."  Though  Allan  Melville 
chose  as  courtship  gift  a  copy  of  Pleasures  of  Imagination, 
the  pleasures  he  derived  from  the  exercise  of  this  faculty 
were  of  a  sort  that  both  Blake  and  his  son  would  have  thought 
tame  in  the  extreme.  Allan  saw  the  world  with  his  eyes  alone, 
he  proudly  believed,  the  world  as  it  really  is.  It  was  both  the 
blessing  and  the  curse  of  his  son  that  his  was  the  gift  of  "sec 
ond  sight." 

"We  had  several  pieces  of  furniture  in  the  house,"  says  Mel 
ville,  speaking  of  his  childhood  days,  "which  had  been  brought 
from  Europe" :  furniture  that  had  been  imported  by  Allan, 
some  of  which  is  still  in  the  possession  of  Melville's  descend 
ants.  "These  I  examined  again  and  again,  wondering  where 
the  wood  grew :  whether  the  workmen  who  made  them  still 
survived,  and  what  they  could  be  doing  with  themselves  now." 
Could  Allan  have  known  what  was  going  on  in  the  head  of  his 
son,  he  would  have  been  as  alarmed  as  was  the  father  of  Ana- 
tole  France  when  the  young  Thibault  undertook  to  emulate 
St.  Nicholas  of  Patras  and  distribute  his  riches  to  the  poor. 

Even  as  a  child,  he  was  lured  by  the  romance  of  distance, 
and  he  confesses  how  he  used  to  think  "how  fine  it  would  be, 
to  be  able  to  talk  about  remote  barbarous  countries ;  with  what 
reverence  and  wonder  people  would  regard  me,  if  I  had  just 
returned  from  the  coast  of  Africa  or  New  Zealand :  how  dark 
and  romantic  my  sunburnt  cheeks  would  look;  how  I  would 
bring  home  with  me  foreign  clothes  of  rich  fabric  and  princely 
make,  and  wear  them  up  and  down  the  streets,  and  how 
grocers'  boys  would  turn  their  heads  to  look  at  me,  as  I  went 


PARENTS  AND  EARLY  YEARS    75 

by.  For  I  very  well  remembered  staring  at  a  man  myself,  who 
was  pointed  out  to  me  by  my  aunt  one  Sunday  in  church,  as 
the  person  who  had  been  in  stony  Arabia  and  passed  through 
strange  adventures  there,  all  of  which  with  my  own  eyes  I  had 
read  in  the  book  which  he  wrote,  an  arid-looking  book  in  a 
pale  yellow  cover. 

"  'See  what  big  eyes  he  has/  whispered  my  aunt,  'they  got 
so  big,  because  when  he  was  almost  dead  in  the  desert  with 
famishing,  he  all  at  once  caught  sight  of  a  date  tree,  with  the 
ripe  fruit  hanging  on  it.'  Upon  this,  I  stared  at  him  till  I 
thought  his  eyes  were  really  of  an  uncommon  size,  and  stuck 
out  from  his  head  like  those  of  a  lobster.  When  church  was 
out,  I  wanted  my  aunt  to  take  me  along  and  follow  the  trav 
eller  home.  But  she  said  the  constables  would  take  us  up,  if 
we  did;  and  so  I  never  saw  the  wonderful  Arabian  traveller 
again.  But  he  long  haunted  me;  and  several  times  I  dreamt 
of  him,  and  thought  his  great  eyes  were  grown  still  larger  and 
rounder;  and  once  I  had  a  vision  of  the  date  tree." 

It  is  one  of  the  few  certainties  of  life  that  a  child  who  has 
once  stood  fixed  before  a  piece  of  household  furniture  worry 
ing  his  head  about  whether  the  workman  who  made  it  still  be 
alive;  who  after  seeing  an  Arabian  traveller  in  church  goes 
home  and  has  a  vision  of  a  date  tree :  such  a  child  is  not  going 
to  die  an  efficiency  expert.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  Melville 
found  himself  faced  with  the  premature  necessity  of  coming 
to  some  sort  of  terms  with  life  on  his  own  account.  Helped 
by  his  uncle,  he  tried  working  in  a  bank.  The  experiment 
seems  not  to  have  been  a  success.  His  next  experiment  was 
clerk  in  his  brother's  store.  But  banking  and  clerking  seem  to 
have  been  equally  repugnant.  Melville  had  a  taste  for  land 
scape,  so  his  next  experiment  was  as  farmer  and  country 
school-keeper.  But  farming,  interspersed  with  pedagogy  and 
pugilism,  fired  Melville  to  a  mood  of  desperation.  "Talk  not 
of  the  bitterness  of  middle  age  and  after-life,"  he  later  wrote; 
"a  boy  can  feel  all  that,  and  much  more,  when  upon  his  young 
soul  the  mildew  has  fallen.  .  .  .  Before  the  death  of  my 
father  I  never  thought  of  working  for  my  living,  and  never 
knew  there  were  hard  hearts  in  the  world.  .  I  had  learned 


76  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

to  think  much,  and  bitterly,  before  my  time."  So  he  decided 
to  slough  off  the  tame  respectabilities  of  his  well-to-do  uncles, 
and  cousins,  and  aunts.  Goaded  by  hardship,  and  pathetically 
lured  by  the  glamorous  mirage  of  distance,  with  all  the  im 
petuosity  of  his  eighteen  summers  he  planned  a  hegira.  "With 
a  philosophical  flourish  Cato  throws  himself  upon  his  sword; 
I  quietly  take  to  the  ship.  This  is  my  substitute  for  pistol  and 
ball." 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL 

"When  I  go  to  sea,  I  go  as  a  simple  sailor,  right  before  the  mast,  plumb 
down  into  the  forecastle,  aloft  there  to  the  royal  mast-head.  True,  they 
rather  order  me  about  some,  and  make  me  jump  from  spar  to  spar,  like 
a  grasshopper  in  a  May  meadow.  ^And  at  first,  this  sort  of  thing  is 
unpleasant  enough.  It  touches  one's  sense  of  honour,  particularly  if 
you  come  of  an  old  established  family  in  the  land,  the  Van  Rensselaers, 
or  Randolphs,  or  Hardicanutes.  And  more  than  all,  if  just  previous  to 
putting  your  hand  into  the  tar-pot,  you  have  been  lording  it  as  a  country 
schoolmaster,  making  the  tallest  boys  stand  in  awe  of  you,  the  transi 
tion  is  a  keen  one,  I  assure  you,  from  a  schoolmaster  to  a'  sailor,  and 
requires  a  strong  decoction  of  Seneca  and  the  Stoics  to  enable  you  to 
grin  and  bear  it."  — HERMAN  MELVILLE:  Moby-Dick. 

WHEN,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  Melville  cut  loose  from  his 
mother,  his  kind  cousins  and  aunts,  and  sympathising  sisters, 
he  was  stirred  by  motives  of  desperation,  and  by  the  immature 
delusion  that  happiness  lies  elusive  and  beckoning,  just  over 
the  world's  rim.  It  was  a  drastic  escape  from  the  intolerable 
monotony  of  prosaic  certainties  and  aching  frustrations.  "Sad 
disappointments  in  several  plans  which  I  had  sketched  for  my 
future  life,"  says  Melville,  "the  necessity  of  doing  something 
for  myself,  united  with  a  naturally  roving  disposition,  con 
spired  within  me,  to  send  me  to  sea  as  a  sailor." 

In  Redburn:  His  First  Voyage.  Being  the  Sailor-boy  Con 
fessions  and  Reminiscences  of  the  Son-of-a-Gentleman  (1849) 
Melville  has  left  what  is  the  only  surviving  record  of  his  initial 
attempt  "to  sail  beyond  the  sunset/'  Luridly  vivid  and  exub 
erant  was  his  imagination,  flooding  the  world  of  his  childhood 
and  fantastically  transmuting  reality.  At  the  time  of  his  first 
voyage,  Melville  was,  it  is  well  to  remember,  a  boy  of  seven 
teen.  He  was  not  old  enough,  not  wise  enough,  to  regard  his 
dreams  as  impalpable  projections  of  his  defeated  desires:  de 
sires  inflamed  by  what  Dr.  Johnson  called  the  "dangerous 
prevalence  of  imagination,"  and  which,  in  "sober  probability" 
could  find  no  actual  satisfaction.  Had  Melville  been  a  nature 

77 


78  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

of  less  impetuosity,  or  of  less  abundant  physical  vitality,  he 
might  have  moped  tamely  at  home  and  "yearned."  But  with 
the  desperate  Quixotic  enterprise  of  a  splendid  but  embittered 
boy,  he  sallied  forth  into  the  unknown  to  put  his  dreams  to  the 
test.  When  it  was  reported  to  Carlyle  that  Margaret  Fuller 
made  boast :  "I  accept  the  universe,"  unimpressed  he  re 
marked :  "Gad!  she'd  better."  Melville,  when  only  seventeen, 
had  not  yet  come  to  Carlyle's  dyspeptic  resignation  to  the  cos 
mic  order.  "As  years  and  dumps  increase;  as  reflection  lends 
her  solemn  pause,  then,"  so  Melville  says,  in  substance,  in  a 
passage  on  elderly  whales,  "in  the  impotent,  repentant,  admon 
itory  stage  of  life,  do  sulky  old  souls  go  about  all  alone  among 
the  meridians  and  parallels  saying  their  prayers."  Lacking 
Dr.  Johnson's  elderly  wisdom,  Melville  believed  there  to  be 
some  correlation  between  happiness  and  geography.  He  was 
not  willing  to  take  resignation  on  faith.  Not  through  "spon 
taneous  striving  towards  development,"  but  through  necessity 
and  hard  contact  with  nature  and  men  does  the  recalcitrant 
dreamer  accept  Carlyle's  dictum.  With  drastic  experience, 
most  men  come  at  last  to  have  a  little  commonsense  knocked 
into  their  heads, — and  a  good  bit  of  imagination  knocked  out, 
as  Wordsworth,  for  one,  discovered. 

Melville's  recourse  to  the  ocean  in  1837,  as  that  of  Richard 
Henry  Dana's  three  years  before,  was  a  heroic  measure,  cal 
culated  either  to  take  the  nonsense  out  of  both  of  them,  or  else 
to  drive  them  straight  either  to  suicide,  madness,  or  rum- 
soaked  barbarism.  To  both  boys,  it  was  a  crucial  test  that 
would  have  ruined  coarser  or  weaker  natures.  Dana  came 
from  out  the  ordeal  purged  and  strengthened,  toned  up  to  the 
proper  level,  and  no  longer  too  fine  for  everyday  use.  Though 
as  years  went  by,  so  says  C.  F.  Adams,  his  biographer,  "the 
freshness  of  the  great  lesson  faded  away,  and  influences  which 
antedated  his  birth  and  surrounded  his  life  asserted  themselves, 
not  for  his  good." 

Because  of  lack  of  contemporary  evidence,  the  immediate 
influences  of  Melville's  first  experience  in  the  forecastle,  can 
not  be  so  positively  stated.  Redburn,  the  only  record  of  the 
adventure,  was  not  written  until  twelve  years  after  Melville 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL      79 

had  experienced  what  it  records.  Extraordinarily  crowded 
was  this  intervening  span  of  twelve  years.  But  despite  the 
fulness  of  intervening  experience — or,  maybe,  because  of  it — 
the  universe  still  stuck  in  his  maw :  it  was  a  bolus  on  which 
he  gagged.  Redburn  is  written  in  embittered  memory  of  Mel 
ville's  first  hegira.  In  the  words  of  Mr.  H.  S.  Salt:  "It  is  a 
record  of  bitter  experience  and  temporary  disillusionment— 
the  confessions  of  a  poor,  proud  youth,  who  goes  to  sea  'with 
a  devil  in  his  heart'  and  is  painfully  initiated  into  the  unfore 
seen  hardships  of  a  sea-faring  life."  In  1849  he  was  still  un 
adjusted  to  unpalatable  reality,  and  in  Redburn  he  seems  intent 
upon  revenging  himself  upon  his  early  disillusion  by  an  in 
verted  idealism, — by  building  for  himself,  "not  castles,  but 
dungeons  in  Spain," — as  if,  failing  to  reach  the  moon,  he 
should  determine  to  make  a  Cynthia  of  the  first  green  cheese. 
And  this  inverted  idealism  he  achieves  most  effectively  by  re 
cording  with  photographic  literalness  the  most  hideous  details 
of  his  penurious  migration.  His  romantic  realism — remind 
ing  one  of  Zola  and  certain  pages  out  of  Rousseau — he  alter 
nates  with  malicious  self-satire,  and  its  obverse  gesture,  ob 
trusive  self-pity.  To  those  austere  and  classical  souls  who 
are  proudly  impatient  of  this  style  of  writing,  it  must  be  in 
sisted  with  what  Arnold  called  "damnable  iteration"  that  Red- 
burn  purports  to  be  the  confessions  of  a  seventeen-year-old 
lad.  Autobiographically,  the  book  is,  of  course,  of  superlative 
interest.  But  despite  its  unaccountable  neglect,  and  Melville's 
ostentation  of  contempt  for  it,  it  is  none  the  less  important, 
in  the  history  of  letters,  as  a  very  notable  achievement.  Mr. 
Masefield  and  W.  Clark  Russell  alone,  of  competent  critics, 
seem  to  have  been  aware  of  its  existence.  It  is  Redburn  that 
Mr.  Masefield  confesses  to  loving  best  of  Melville's  writings : 
this  "boy's  book  about  running  away  to  sea."  Mr.  Masefield 
thinks,  however,  that  "one  must  know  New  York  and  the 
haunted  sailor-town  of  Liverpool  to  appreciate  that  gentle 
story  thoroughly." 

When  Melville  wrote  Redburn  in  1849,  there  was  no  book 
exactly  like  it  in  our  literature,  its  only  possible  forerunners 
being  Nathaniel  Ames'  A  Mariner's  Sketches  (1830)  and 


80  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Dana's  Two  Years  before  the  Mast  (1840).  The  great  cap 
tains  had  written  of  their  voyages,  it  is  true;  or  when  they 
themselves  left  no  record,  their  literary  laxity  was  usually  cor 
rected  by  the  querulousness  of  some  member  of  their  ship's 
company.  Great  compilations  such  as  Churchill's,  or  Harris', 
or  Hakluyt's  The  Principal  Navigations,  Voyages,  Trafhques 
and  Discoveries  of  the  English  Nation:  made  by  sea  or  overland 
to  the  remotest  and  farthest  different  quarters  of  the  earth  at 
any  time  within  the  Compass  of  these  1600  years,  or  no  less 
luxuriously  entitled  works,  such  as  the  fine  old  eighteenth  cen 
tury  folio  of  Captain  Charles  Johnson's  A  General  History 
of  the  Lives  and  Adventures  of  the  Most  Famous  Highway 
men,  Murderers,  Street  Robbers,  etc.,  To  which  is  added,  A 
Genuine  Account  of  the  Voyages  and  Plunders  of  the  Most 
Notorious  Pyrates,  interspersed  with  several  diverting  tales, 
and  pleasant  songs,  and  adorned  with  the  Heads  of  the  Most 
Remarkable  Villains,  curiously  Engraven,  are  monuments  to 
the  prodigious  wealth  of  the  early  literature  of  sea  adventure. 
The  light  of  romance  colours  these  maritime  exploits,  and  even 
upon  the  maturest  gaze  there  still  lingers  something  of  the 
radiance  with  which  the  ardent  imagination  of  boyhood  gilds 
the  actions  and  persons  of  these  fierce  sea-warriors,  treach 
erous,  cruel  and  profligate  miscreants  though  the  most  pic 
turesque  of  them  were. 

But  these  hardy  adventurers  were  men  of  action ;  men  proud 
of  their  own  exploits,  but  untouched  by  any  corrupt  self-con 
sciousness  of  their  Gilbert-and-Sullivan,  or  Byronic  possibili 
ties;  men  untempted  to  offer  any  superfluous  encouragement 
to  the  deep  blue  sea  to  "roll."  And  though  many  of  them— 
Captain  Cook,  for  example — ran  away  to  sea  to  ship  before 
the  mast,  they  in  later  years  betray  no  temptings  to  linger  with 
attention  over  their  days  of  early  obscurity.  Even  The  Book 
of  Things  Forgotten  passes  over  the  period  of  Cook's  life  in 
the  forecastle.  He  began  as  an  apprentice,  he  ended  as  a  mate. 
That  is  all.  As  regards  the  life  he  led  as  a  youth  on  board 
the  merchant  ship  there  is  no  account:  a  silence  that  forces 
Walter  Besant  in  his  Captain  Cook  to  a  page  or  two  of  sur 
mise  as  a  transition  to  more  notable  sureties.  An  apprecia- 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL      81 

tion  of  the  romance  of  the  sea,  and  of  the  humbler  details  of 
the  life  of  the  common  sailor  is  one  of  our  most  recent  so 
phistications. 

In  fiction,  it  is  true,  Smollett  had  his  sailors,  as  did  Scott, 
and  Marryat,  and  Cooper, — to  mention  only  the  most  notable 
names.  Provoked  to  originality  by  a  defiant  boast,  Cooper 
wrote  the  earliest  first-rate  sea-novel:  a  story  concerning  itself 
exclusively  with  the  sea.  Remarkable  is  the  clearness  and  ac 
curacy  of  his  description  of  the  manoeuvres  of  his  ships.  He 
makes  his  vessels  "walk  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life."  "I 
have  loved  ships  as  I  have  loved  men,"  says  Melville.  And 
Cooper  before  him,  as  Conrad  after  him,  have  by  similar  love 
given  personality  to  vessels.  Among  his  company  of  able  sea 
men,  Cooper  has  his  Long  Tom  Coffin:  and  these  are  more 
picturesque,  arid  perhaps  more  real  than  his  Lord  Geoffrey 
Cleveland,  his  Admiral  Bluewater,  his  Griffith,  and  his  other 
quarterdeck  people.  But  sea-life  as  Cooper  knew  it  was  sea- 
life  as  seen  from  the  quarterdeck,  and  from  the  quarterdeck 
of  the  United  States  navy. 

Marryat,  it  is  true,  makes  his  Newton  Foster  a  merchant 
sailor.  But  Marryat  knew  nothing  of  the  hidden  life  of  the 
merchant  service.  He  had  passed  his  sea-life  in  the  ships  of 
the  States,  and  he  knew  no  more  of  what  passed  in  a  merchant 
man's  forecastle  than  the  general  present  day  land  intelligence 
knows  of  what  passes  in  a  steamer's  engine  room.  Dana  and 
Melville  were  the  first  to  lift  the  hatch  and  show  the  world 
what  passes  in  a  ship's  forecastle.  Dana  disclosed  these  secrets 
in  a  single  volume;  Melville  in  a  number  of  remarkable  nar 
ratives,  the  first  of  which  was  Redburn. 

Dana's  is  a  trustworthy  and  matter-of-fact  account  in  the 
form  of  a  journal;  a  vigorous,  faithful,  modest  narrative. 
With  very  little  interest  exhibited  in  the  feeling  of  his  own 
pulse,  he  recounts  the  happenings  aboard  the  ship  from  day 
to  day.  Melville's  account  is  more  vivid  because  more  inti 
mate.  As  is  the  case  with  George  Borrow,  his  eye  is  always 
riveted  upon  himself.  He  minutely  amplifies  his  own  emotions 
and  sensations,  and  with  an  incalculable  gain  over  Dana  in  de 
scriptive  vividness.  One  would  have  to  be  colour  blind  to 


82  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

purple  patches  to  fail  to  recognise  in  Redburn  streaks  of  the 
purest  Tyrean  dye.  Between  Melville  and  Dana  the  answer 
is  obvious  as  to  "who  fished  the  murex  up?" 

"It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  and  full  eyes,"  says  Melville, 
"that  my  mother  parted  from  me ;  perhaps  she  thought  me  an 
erring  and  a  wilful  boy,  and  perhaps  I  was;  but  if  I  was,  it 
had  been  a  hard-hearted  world,  and  hard  times  that  had  made 
me  so." 

Dressed  in  a  hunting  jacket;  one  leg  of  his  trousers  adorned 
with  an  ample  and  embarrassing  patch ;  armed  with  a  fowling 
piece  which  his  older  brother  Gansevoort  had  given  him,  in 
lieu  of  cash,  to  sell  in  New  York;  without  a  penny  in  his 
pocket:  Melville  arrived  in  New  York  on  a  fine  rainy  day  in 
the  late  spring  of  1837.  Dripping  like  a  seal,  and  garbed  like 
a  housebreaker,  he  walked  across  town  to  the  home  of  a  friend 
of  Gansevoort's,  where  he  was  dried,  warmed  and  fed. 

Philo  of  Judea  has  descended  to  posterity  blushing  because 
he  had  a  body.  Melville  survives,  rosy  in  animality :  but  his 
was  never  Philo's  scarlet  of  shame.  Melville  was  a  boy  of  su 
perb  physical  vigour:  and  his  blackest  plunges  of  discourage 
ment  and  philosophical  despair  were  always  wholesomely  amen 
able  to  the  persuasions  of  food  and  drink.  It  was  Carlyle's 
conviction  that  with  stupidity  and  a  good  digestion  man  can 
bear  much:  had  Melville  been  gifted  with  stupidity,  he  wrould 
have  needed  only  regular  meals  to  convert  him  into  a  miracle 
of  cheerful  endurance.  "There  is  a  savour  of  life  and  immor 
tality  in  substantial  fare,"  he  later  wrote;  "we  are  like  bal 
loons,  which  are  nothing  till  filled."  When  Melville  sat  down 
to  the  well-stocked  table  at  his  friend's  house  in  New  York  he 
was  a  very  miserable  boy.  But  his  misery  was  not  invul 
nerable.  "Every  mouthful  pushed  the  devil  that  had  been 
tormenting  me  all  day  farther  and  farther  out  of  me,  till  at 
last  I  entirely  ejected  him  with  three  successive  bowls  of 
Bohea.  That  night  I  went  to  bed  thinking  the  world  pretty 
tolerable  after  all." 

Next  day,  accompanied  by  his  brother's  friend,  whose  true 
name  Melville  disguises  under  the  anonymity  of  Jones,  Mel 
ville  walked  down  to  the  water  front. 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL      83 

At  that  time,  and  indeed  until  as  recently  as  thirty  years 
ago,  the  water  front  of  a  great  sea-port  town  like  New  York 
showed  a  towering  forest  of  tall  and  tapering  masts  reaching 
high  up  above  the  roofs  of  the  water-side  buildings,  crossed 
with  slender  spars  hung  with  snowy  canvas,  and  braced  with  a 
maze  of  cordage :  a  brave  sight  that  Melville  passes  over  in 
morose  silence.  He  postpones  until  his  arrival  in  Liverpool 
the  spicing  of  his  account  with  the  blended  smells  of  pitch,  and 
tar,  and  old-ropes,  and  wet-wood,  and  resin  and  the  sharp  cool 
tang  of  brine.  Nor  does  Melville  pause  to  conjure  up  the  great 
bowsprits  and  jib-booms  that  stretched  across  the  street  that 
passed  the  foot  of  the  slips.  Though  Melville  has  left  a  de 
tailed  description  of  the  Liverpool  docks — not  failing  to  paint 
in  with  a  dripping  brush  the  blackest  shadows  of  the  low  life 
framing  that  picturesque  scene — it  was  outside  his  purpose  to 
give  any  hint  of  the  maritime  achievement  of  the  merchant 
service  in  which  he  was  such  an  insignificant  unit. 

The  maritime  achievement  of  the  United  States  was  then 
almost  at  the  pinnacle  of  its  glory.  At  that  time,  the  topsails 
of  the  United  States  flecked  every  ocean,  and  their  captains 
courageous  left  no  lands  unvisited,  no  sea  unexplored.  From 
New  England  in  particular  sailed  ships  where  no  other  ships 
dared  to  go,  anchoring  where  no  one  else  ever  dreamed  of 
looking  for  trade.  And  so  it  happened,  as  Ralph  D.  Paine  in 
his  The  Old  Merchant  Marine  has  pointed  out,  that  "in  the 
spicy  warehouses  that  overlooked  Salem  Harbour  there  came 
to  be  stored  hemp  from  Luzon,  gum  copal  from  Zanzibar,  palm 
oil  from  Africa,  coffee  from  Arabia,  tallow  from  Madagascar, 
whale  oil  from  the  Antarctic,  hides  and  wool  from  the  Rio  de 
la  Plata,  nutmeg  and  cloves  from  Malaysia."  With  New  Eng 
land  originality  and  audacity,  Boston  shipped  cargoes  of  ice 
to  Calcutta.  And  for  thirty  years  a  regular  trade  in  Massa 
chusetts  ice  remained  active  and  lucrative :  such  perishable 
freight  out  upon  a  four  or  five  months'  voyage  across  the  fiery 
Equator,  doubling  Da  Gama's  cape  and  steering  through  the 
furnace  heat  of  the  Indian  Ocean.  In  those  days  the  people 
of  the  Atlantic  seacoast  from  Maryland  northward  found  their 
interests  vitally  allied  with  maritime  adventure.  There  was 


84  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

a  generous  scattering  of  sea-faring  folk  among  Melville's  fore 
bears  of  our  early  national  era;  and  Melville's  father,  an  im 
porting  merchant,  owed  his  fortunes  in  important  part,  to 
the  chances  of  the  sea.  The  United  States,  without  railroads, 
and  with  only  the  most  wretched  excuses  for  post-roads, 
were  linked  together  by  coasting  ships.  And  thousands  of 
miles  of  ocean  separated  Americans  from  the  markets  in  which 
they  must  sell  their  produce  and  buy  their  luxuries.  Down 
to  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  one  of  the  most  vital  inter 
ests  of  the  United  States  was  in  the  sea :  an  interest  that 
deeply  influenced  the  thought,  the  legislature  and  the  literature 
of  our  people.  And  during  this  period,  as  Willis  J.  Abbott, 
in  his  American  Merchant  Ships  and  Sailors  has  noted,  "the 
sea  was  a  favourite  career,  not  only  for  American  boys  with 
their  way  to  make  in  the  world,  but  for  the  sons  of  wealthy 
men  as  well.  That  classic  of  New  England  seamanship  Two 
Years  Before  the  Mast  was  not  written  until  the  middle  of  the 
iQth  century,  and  its  author  went  to  sea,  not  in  search  of 
wealth,  but  of  health.  But  before  the  time  of  Richard  Henry 
Dana,  many  a  young  man  of  good  family  and  education — a 
Harvard  graduate,  like  him,  perhaps — bade  farewell  to  a 
home  of  comfort  and  refinement  and  made  his  berth  in  a 
smoky,  fetid  forecastle  to  learn  the  sailor's  calling.  There 
was  at  that  time  less  to  engage  the  activities  and  arouse  the 
ambitions  of  youth  than  now,  and  the  sea  offered  a  most  prom 
ising  career.  .  .  .  Ships  were  multiplying  fast,  and  no  really 
lively  and  alert  seaman  need  stay  long  in  the  forecastle."  The 
brilliant  maritime  growth  of  the  United  States,  after  a  steady 
development  for  two  hundred  years,  was,  when  Melville  sailed 
in  1837,  within  twenty-five  years  of  its  climax.  It  was  to 
reach  its  peak  in  1861,  when  the  aggregate  tonnage  belonging 
to  the  United  States  was  but  a  little  smaller  than  that  of  Great 
Britain  and  her  dependencies,  and  nearly  as  large  as  the  com 
bined  tonnage  of  all  other  nations  of  the  world,  Great  Britain 
excepted.  Vanished  fleets  and  brave  memories — a  chronicle 
of  America  which  had  written  its  closing  chapters  before  the 
Civil  War! 

But  this  state  of  affairs, — if,  indeed,  he  was  even  vaguely 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL      85 

conscious  of  its  existence, — left  Melville  at  the  time  of  his  first 
shipping,  completely  cold.  It  is  doubtless  true  that  Maria 
would  have  respected  him  more  if  he  had  attempted  to  justify 
his  sea-going  by  assuring  her  that  at  that  time  it  was  to  no 
degree  remarkable  for  seamen  to  become  full-fledged  captains 
and  part  owners  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  or  even  earlier.  And 
Maria  would  have  listened  impressed  to  such  cogent  evidence 
as  the  case  of  Thomas  T.  Forbes,  for  example,  who  shipped 
before  the  mast  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  and  was  commander  of 
the  Levant  at  twenty;  or  the  case  of  William  Sturges,  after 
wards  the  head  of  a  firm  which  at  one  time  controlled  half  the 
trade  between  the  United  States  and  China,  who  shipped  at 
seventeen,  and  was  a  captain  and  manager  in  the  China  trade 
at  nineteen.  But  such  facts  touched  Melville  not  at  all.  "At 
that  early  age,"  he  says,  "I  was  as  unambitious  as  a  man  of 
sixty/'  Melville's  brother,  Tom,  came  to  be  a  sea-captain. 
Melville's  was  a  different  destiny. 

So  he  trudged  with  his  friend  among  the  boats  along  the 
water  front,  where,  after  some  little  searching,  they  hit  upon 
a  ship  for  Liverpool.  In  the  cabin  they  found  the  suave  and 
bearded  Captain,  dapperly  dressed,  and  humming  a  brisk  air  as 
he  promenaded  up  and  down :  not  such  a  completely  odious 
creature,  despite  Melville's  final  contempt  for  him.  The  con 
versation  was  concluded  by  Melville  signing  up  as  a  "boy,"  at 
terms  not  wildly  lucrative  for  Melville. 

"Pray,  captain/'  said  Melville's  amiable  bungling  friend, 
"how  much  do  you  generally  pay  a  handsome  fellow  like  this?" 

"Well,"  said  the  captain,  looking  grave  and  profound,  "we 
are  not  so  particular  about  beauty,  and  we  never  give  more 
than  three  dollars  to  a  green  lad." 

Melville's  next  move  was  to  sell  his  gun :  an  experience 
which  gives  him  occasion  to  discourse  on  pawn  shops  and  the 
unenviable  hardships  of  paupers.  With  the  two  and  a  half 
dollars  that  he  reaped  by  the  sale  of  his  gun,  and  in  almost 
criminal  innocence  of  the  outfit  he  would  need,  he  bought  a 
red  woollen  shirt,  a  tarpaulin  hat,  a  belt,  and  a  jack-knife.  In 
his  improvidence,  he  was  ill  provided,  indeed,  with  everything 
calculated  to  make  his  situation  aboard  ship  at  all  comfortable, 


86  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

or  even  tolerable.  He  was  without  mattress  or  bed-clothes, 
or  table-tools ;  without  pilot-cloth  jackets,  or  trousers,  or 
guernsey  frocks,  or  oil-skin  suits,  or  sea-boots  and  the  other 
things  which  old  seamen  used  to  carry  in  their  chests.  As  he 
himself  says,  his  sea-outfit  was  "something  like  that  of  the 
Texan  rangers,  whose  uniform,  they  say,  consists  of  a  shirt 
collar  and  a  pair  of  spurs."  His  purchases  made,  he  did  a 
highly  typical  thing:  "I  had  only  one  penny  left,  so  I  walked 
out  to  the  end  of  the  pier,  and  threw  the  penny  into  the 
water." 

That  night,  after  dinner,  Melville  went  to  his  room  to  try 
on  his  red  woollen  shirt  before  the  glass,  to  see  what  sort  of  a 
looking  sailor  he  would  make.  But  before  beginning  this 
ritual  before  the  mirror,  he  "locked  the  door  carefully,  and 
hung  a  towel  over  the  knob,  so  that  no  one  could  peep  through 
the  keyhole."  It  is  said  that  throughout  his  life  Melville  clung 
to  this  practice  of  draping  door-knobs.  "As  soon  as  I  got 
into  the  shirt,"  Melville  goes  on  to  say,  "I  began  to  feel  sort 
of  warm  and  red  about  the  face,  which  I  found  was  owing  to 
the  reflection  of  the  dyed  wool  upon  my  skin.  After  that, 
I  took  a  pair  of  scissors  and  went  to  cutting  my  hair,  which 
was  very  long.  I  thought  every  little  would  help  in  making 
me  a  light  hand  to  run  aloft." 

Next  morning,  before  he  reached  the  ship,  it  began  raining 
hard,  so  it  was  plain  there  would  be  no  getting  to  sea  that  day. 
But  having  once  said  farewell  to  his  friends,  and  feeling  a 
repetition  of  the  ceremony  would  be  awkward,  Melville 
boarded  the  ship,  where  a  large  man  in  a  large  dripping  pea- 
jacket,  who  was  calking  down  the  main-hatches,  directed  him 
in  no  cordial  terms  to  the  forecastle.  Rather  different  was 
Dana's  appearance  on  board  the  brig  Pilgrim  on  August  14, 
1834,  "in  full  sea-rig,  with  my  chest  containing  an  outfit  for 
a  two  or  three  years'  voyage."  Nor  did  Dana  begin  in  the 
forecastle. 

In  the  dark  damp  stench  of  that  deserted  hole,  Melville 
selected  an  empty  bunk.  In  the  middle  of  this  he  deposited 
the  slim  bundle  of  his  belongings,  and  penniless  and  dripping 
spent  the  day  walking  hungry  among  the  wharves :  a  day's 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL      87 

peregrination  that  he  recounts  with  vivid  and  remorseless 
realism. 

At  night  he  returned  to  the  forecastle,  where  he  met  a  thick 
headed  lad  from  Lancaster  of  about  his  own  years.  Glad  of 
any  companionship,  Melville  and  this  lubber  boy  crawled  to 
gether  in  the  same  bunk.  But  between  the  high  odour  of  the 
forecastle,  the  loud  snoring  of  his  bed-fellow,  wet,  cold  and 
hungry,  he  went  up  on  deck,  where  he  walked  till  morning. 
When  the  groceries  on  the  wharf  opened,  he  went  to  make  a 
breakfast  of  a  glass  of  water.  This  made  him  qualmish.  "My 
head  was  dizzy,  and  I  went  staggering  along  the  walk,  almost 
blind." 

By  the  time  Melville  got  back  to  the  ship,  everything  was  in 
an  uproar.  The  pea-jacket  man  was  there  ordering  about  men 
in  the  riggings,  and  people  were  bringing  off  chickens,  and 
pigs,  and  beef,  and  vegetables  from  the  shore.  Melville's 
initial  task  was  the  cleaning  out  of  the  pig-pen;  after  this  he 
was  sent  up  the  top-mast  with  a  bucket  of  a  thick  lobbered 
gravy,  which  slush  he  dabbed  over  the  mast.  This  over,  and, 
in  the  increasing  bustle  everything  having  been  made  ready  to 
sail,  the  word  was  passed  to  go  to  dinner  fore  and  aft. 
"Though  the  sailors  surfeited  with  eating  and  drinking  ashore 
did  not  touch  the  salt  beef  and  potatoes  which  the  black  cook 
handed  down  into  the  forecastle:  and  though  this  left  the 
whole  allowance  to  me;  to  my  surprise,  I  found  that  I  could 
eat  little  or  nothing ;  for  now  I  only  felt  deadly  faint,  but  not 
hungry." 

Only  a  lunatic,  of  course,  would  expect  to  find  very  com 
modious  or  airy  quarters,  any  drawing-room  amenities,  Chau- 
tauqua  uplift,  or  Y.M.C.A.  insipidities  aboard  a  merchant 
man  of  the  old  sailing  days.  Nathaniel  Ames,  a  Harvard 
graduate  who  a  little  before  Melville's  time  shipped  before 
the  mast,  records  that  on  his  first  vessel,  men  seeking  berths 
in  the  forecastle  were  ordered  to  bring  certificates  of  good 
character  from  their  clergymen :  an  unusual  requirement, 
surely.  In  more  than  one  memoir,  there  is  mention  of  a 
"  religious  ship  " :  an  occasional  mention  that  speaks  volumes 
for  the  heathenism  of  the  majority.  Dana  says  of  one  of  the 


88  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

mates  aboard  the  Pilgrim:  "He  was  too  easy  and  amiable  for 
the  mate  of  a  merchantman.  He  was  not  the  man  to  call  a 
sailor  a  'son  of  a  bitch'  and  knock  him  down  with  a  hand 
spike."  And  J.  Grey  Jewell,  sometime  United  States  Consul 
at  Singapore,  in  his  book  Among  Our  Sailors  makes  a  sober 
and  elaborately  documented  attempt  to  strip  the  life  of  a  sailor 
of  its  romantic  glamour,  to  show  that  it  is  not  a  "round  of 
fun  and  frolic  and  jollity  with  the  advantages  of  seeing  many 
distant  lands  and  people  thrown  in"  :  an  effort  that  would  seem 
to  be  unnecessary  except  to  boy  readers  of  Captain  Marryat 
and  dime  thrillers. 

Melville's  shipmates  were,  it  goes  without  saying,  rough 
and  illiterate  men.  With  typical  irony,  he  says  that  with  a 
good  degree  of  complacency  and  satisfaction  he  compared  his 
own  character  with  that  of  his  shipmates:  "for  I  had  previ 
ously  associated  with  persons  of  a  very  discreet  life,  so  that 
there  was  little  opportunity  to  magnify  myself  by  comparing 
myself  with  my  neighbours."  In  a  more  serious  mood,  he 
says  of  sailors  as  a  class :  "the  very  fact  of  their  being  sailors 
argues  a  certain  restlessness  and  sensualism  of  character,  igno 
rance,  and  depravity.  They  are  deemed  almost  the  refuse  of 
the  earth ;  and  the  romantic  view  of  them  is  principally  had 
through  romances."  And  their  chances  of  improvement  are 
not  increased,  he  contends,  by  the  fact  that  "after  the  vigorous 
discipline,  hardships,  dangers  and  privations  of  a  voyage,  they 
are  set  adrift  in  a  foreign  port,  and  exposed  to  a  thousand 
enticements,  which,  under  the  circumstances,  would  be  hard 
even  for  virtue  to  withstand,  unless  virtue  went  about  on 
crutches."  It  was  a  tradition  for  centuries  fostered  in  the 
naval  service  that  the  sailor  was  a  dog,  a  different  human 
species  from  the  landsman,  without  laws  and  usages  to  pro 
tect  him.  This  tradition  survived  among  merchant  sailors  as 
an  unhappy  anachronism  even  into  the  twentieth  century,  when 
an  American  Congress  was  reluctant  to  bestow  upon  seamen 
the  decencies  of  existence  enjoyed  by  the  poorest  labourer 
ashore.  Melville's  shipmates  did  not  promise  to  be  men  of 
the  calibre  of  which  Maria  Gansevoort  would  have  approved. 

With  his  ship,  the  Highlander,  streaming  out  through  the 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL      89 

Narrows,  past  sights  rich  in  association  to  his  boyish  recol 
lection;  streaming  out  and  away  from  all  familiar  smells  and 
sights  and  sounds,  Melville  found  himself  "a  sort  of  Ishmael 
in  the  ship,  without  a  single  friend  or  companion,  and  I  began 
to  feel  a  hatred  growing  up  in  me  against  the  whole  crew." 
In  other  words,  Melville  was  a  very  homesick  boy.  But  he 
blended  common  sense  with  homesickness.  "My  heart  was 
like  lead,  and  I  felt  bad  enough,  Heaven  knows;  but  I  soon 
learnt  that  sailors  breathe  nothing  about  such  things,  but 
strive  their  best  to  appear  all  alive  and  hearty."  And  circum 
stances  helped  him  live  up  to  this  gallant  insight.  For,  as 
he  says,  "there  was  plenty  of  work  to  be  done,  which  kept 
my  thoughts  from  becoming  too  much  for  me." 

Melville  was  a  boy  of  stout  physical  courage,  game  to  the 
marrow,  and  in  texture  of  muscle  and  bone  a  worthy  grandson 
of  General  Gansevoort.  What  would  have  ruined  a  sallow 
constitution,  he  seems  to  have  thriven  upon.  "Being  so  illy 
provided  with  clothes,"  he  says,  "I  frequently  turned  into  my 
bunk  soaking  wet,  and  turned  out  again  piping  hot  and  smok 
ing  like  a  roasted  sirloin,  and  yet  was  never  the  worse  for  it; 
for  then,  I  bore  a  charmed  life  of  youth  and  health,  and  was 
daggerproof  to  bodily  ill."  With  alacrity  and  good  sports 
manship,  he  went  at  his  duties.  Before  he  had  been  out  many 
days,  he  had  outlived  the  acute  and  combined  miseries  of 
homesickness  and  seasickness;  the  colour  was  back  in  his 
cheeks,  he  is  careful  to  observe  with  Miltonic  vanity.  Soon  he 
was  taking  especial  delight  in  furling  the  top-gallant  sails  and 
royals  in  a  hard  wind,  and  in  hopping  about  in  the  riggings  like 
a  Saint  Jago's  monkey.  "There  was  a  wild  delirium  about 
it,"  he  says,  "a  fine  rushing  of  the  blood  about  the  heart;  and 
a  glad  thrilling  and  throbbing  of  the  whole  system,  to  find 
yourself  tossed  up  at  every  pitch  into  the  clouds  of  a  stormy 
sky,  and  hovering  like  a  judgment  angel  between  heaven  and 
earth ;  both  hands  free,  with  one  foot  in  the  rigging,  and  one 
somewhere  behind  you  in  the  wind." 

The  food,  of  course,  was  neither  dainty  nor  widely  varied : 
an  unceasing  round  of  salt-pork,  stale  beef,  "duff,"  "lob- 
scouse,"  and  coffee.  "The  thing  they  called  coffee,"  says 


90  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Melville  with  keen  descriptive  effort,  "was  the  most  curious 
tasting  drink  I  ever  drank,  and  tasted  as  little  like  coffee  as 
it  did  like  lemonade;  though,  to  be  sure,  it  was  generally  as 
cold  as  lemonade.  But  what  was  more  curious  still,  was  the 
different  quality  and  taste  of  it  on  different  mornings.  Some* 
times  it  tasted  fishy,  as  if  it  were  a  decoction  of  Dutch  her 
ring;  and  then  it  would  taste  very  salt,  as  if  some  old  horse 
or  sea-beef  had  been  boiled  in  it;  and  then  again  it  would  taste 
a  sort  of  cheesy,  as  if  the  captain  had  sent  his  cheese-parings 
forward  to  make  our  coffee  of;  and  yet  another  time  it  would 
have  such  a  very  bad  flavour  that  I  was  almost  ready  to  think 
some  old  stocking  heel  had  been  boiled  in  it.  Notwithstand 
ing  the  disagreeableness  of  the  flavour,  I  always  used  to  have 
a  strange  curiosity  every  morning  to  see  what  new  taste  it  was 
going  to  have;  and  I  never  missed  making  a  new  discovery 
and  adding  another  taste  to  my  palate." 

Withal,  Melville  might  have  fared  much  worse,  as  contem 
poraneous  accounts  more  than  adequately  prove.  Even  in  later 
days,  Frank  T.  Bullen  was  able  to  write :  "I  have  often  seen 
the  men  break  up  a  couple  of  biscuits  into  a  pot  of  coffee  for 
breakfast,  and  after  letting  it  stand  for  a  minute  or  two,  skim 
off  the  accumulated  scum  of  vermin  from  the  top — maggots, 
weevils,  etc.,  to  the  extent  of  a  couple  of  tablespoonsful,  be 
fore  they  could  shovel  the  mess  into  their  craving  stomachs." 
Melville  never  complains  of  maggots  or  weevils  in  his  bis 
cuits,  nor  does  he  complain  of  being  stinted  food ;  during  this 
period,  both  common  enough  complaints.  The  cook,  it  is  true, 
did  not  sterilise  everything  he  touched.  "I  never  saw  him 
wash  but  once,"  says  Melville,  "and  that  was  at  one  of  his 
own  soup  pots  one  dark  night  when  he  thought  no  one  saw 
him."  But  as  has  already  been  imputed  to  Melville  for  right 
eousness,  his  was  not  a  squeamish  stomach,  and  despite  the 
usual  amount  of  filth  on  board  the  Highlander,  his  meals  seem 
to  have  gone  off  easily  enough.  He  has  left  this  pleasant  pic 
ture  of  the  amenities  of  food-taking:  "the  sailors  sitting  cross- 
legged  at  their  chests  in  a  circle,  and  breaking  the  hard  bis 
cuit,  very  sociably,  over  each  other's  heads,  which  was  very 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL      91 

convenient,  indeed,  but  gave  me  the  headache,  at  least  for  the 
first  four  or  five  days  till  I  got  used  to  it;  and  then  I  did  not 
care  much  about  it,  only  it  kept  my  hair  full  of  crumbs;  and 
I  had  forgot  to  bring  a  fine  comb  and  brush,  so  I  used  to  shake 
my  hair  out  to  windward  over  the  bulwarks  every  evening/1 

Though  the  forecastle  was,  to  characterise  it  quietly,  a 
cramped  and  fetid  hole,  dimly  lighted  and  high  in  odour, 
Melville  came  to  be  sufficiently  acclimated  to  it  to  enjoy  lying 
on  his  back  in  his  bunk  during  a  forenoon  watch  below,  read 
ing  while  his  messmates  slept.  His  bunk  was  an  upper  one, 
and  right  under  the  head  of  it  was  a  bull's-eye,  inserted  into 
the  deck  to  give  light.  Here  he  read  an  account  of  Ship 
wrecks  and  Disasters  at  Sea,  and  a  large  black  volume  on 
Delirium  Tremens:  Melville's  share  in  the  effects  of  a  sailor 
whose  bunk  he  occupied,  who  had,  in  a  frenzy  of  drunken 
ness,  hurled  himself  overboard.  Here  Melville  also  struggled 
to  read  Smith's  Wealth  of  Nations.  "But  soon  I  gave  it  up  for 
lost  work,"  says  Melville ;  "and  thought  that  the  old  backgam 
mon  board  we  had  at  home,  lettered  on  the  back  The  History 
of  Rome,  was  quite  as  full  of  matter,  and  a  great  deal  more 
entertaining." 

The  forecastle,  however,  was  not  invariably  the  setting  for 
scenes  so  idyllic.  Drunkenness  there  was  aplenty,  especially 
at  the  beginning  of  the  voyage  both  from  New  York  and  from 
Liverpool.  Of  the  three  new  men  shipped  at  Liverpool,  two 
were  so  drunk  they  were  unable  to  engage  in  their  duties  until 
some  hours  after  the  boat  quit  the  pier;  but  the  third,  down 
on  the  ship's  papers  as  Miguel  Saveda,  had  to  be  carried  in 
by  a  crimp  and  slung  into  a  bunk  where  he  lay  locked  in  a 
trance.  To  heighten  the  discomforts  of  the  forecastle,  there 
was  soon  added  to  the  stench  of  sweated  flesh,  old  clothes,  to 
bacco  smoke,  rum  and  bilge,  a  new  odour,  attributed  to  the 
presence  of  a  dead  rat.  Some  days  before,  the  forecastle  had 
been  smoked  out  to  extirpate  the  vermin  over-running  her:  a 
smoking  that  seemed  to  have  been  fatal  to  a  rodent  among  the 
hollow  spaces  in  the  side  planks.  "At  midnight,  the  larboard 
watch,  to  which  I  belonged,  turned  out;  and  instantly  as  every 


92  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

man  waked,  he  exclaimed  at  the  now  intolerable  smell,  sup 
posed  to  be  heightened  by  the  shaking  up  of  the  bilge- water, 
from  the  ship's  rolling. 

"  'Blast  that  rat !'  cried  the  Greenlander. 

"  'He's  blasted  already/  said  Jackson,  who  in  his  drawers 
had  crossed  over  to  the  bunk  of  Miguel.  'It's  a  water-rat, 
shipmates,  that's  dead;  and  here  he  is' — and  with  that  he 
dragged  forth  the  sailor's  arm,  exclaiming  'Dead  as  a  timber- 
head!' 

"Upon  this  the  men  rushed  toward  the  bunk,  Max  with  the 
light,  which  he  held  to  the  man's  face.  'No,  he's  not  dead/ 
he  cried,  as  the  yellow  flame  wavered  for  a  moment  at  the 
seaman's  motionless  mouth.  But  hardly  had  the  words  escaped 
when,  to  the  silent  horror  of  all,  two  threads  of  greenish  fire, 
like  a  forked  tongue,  darted  out  between  his  lips ;  and  in  a  mo 
ment  the  cadaverous  face  was  crawled  over  by  a  swarm  of 
worm-like  flames. 

"The  light  dropped  from  the  hand  of  Max,  and  went  out; 
while  covered  all  over  with  spires  and  sparkles  of  flame,  that 
faintly  crackled  in  the  silence,  the  uncovered  parts  of  the  body 
burned  before  us,  precisely  like  a  phosphorescent  shark  in  a 
midnight  sea.  The  eyes  were  open  and  fixed ;  the  mouth  was 
curled  like  a  scroll,  while  the  whole  face,  now  wound  in  curls 
of  soft  blue  flame,  wore  an  aspect  of  grim  defiance,  and  eter 
nal  death.  Prometheus  blasted  by  fire  on  the  rock. 

"One  arm,  its  red  shirt-sleeve  rolled  up,  exposed  the  man's 
name,  tattooed  in  vermilion,  near  the  hollow  of  the  middle 
joint;  and  as  if  there  was  something  peculiar  in  the  painted 
flesh,  every  vibrating  letter  burned  so  white  that  you  might 
read  the  flaming  name  in  the  flickering  ground  of  blue. 

"  'Where's  that  damned  Miguel  ?'  was  now  shouted  down 
among  us  by  the  mate. 

"  'He's  gone  to  the  harbour  where  they  never  weigh  anchor/ 
coughed  Jackson.  'Come  down,  sir,  and  look.' 

"Thinking  that  Jackson  intended  to  beard  him,  the  mate 
sprang  down  in  a  rage ;  but  recoiled  at  the  burning  body  as  if 
he  had  been  shot  by  a  bullet.  Take  hold  of  it/  said  Jackson 
at  last,  to  the  Greenlander;  'it  must  go  overboard.  Don't  stand 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL      93 

shaking  there,  like  a  dog;  take  hold  of  it,  I  say! — But  stop!' 
and  smothering  it  all  in  the  blankets,  he  pulled  it  partly  out  of 
the  bunk. 

"A  few  minutes  more,  and  it  fell  with  a  bubble  among  the 
phosphorescent  sparkles  of  the  sea,  leaving  a  coruscating  wake 
as  it  sank." 

After  this,  Melville  ceased  reading  in  the  forecastle.  And 
indeed  no  other  sailor  but  Jackson  would  stay  in  the  fore 
castle  alone,  and  none  would  laugh  or  sing  there :  none  but 
Jackson.  But  he,  while  the  rest  would  be  sitting  silently  smok 
ing  on  their  chests,  or  on  their  bunks,  would  look  towards  the 
nailed-up  bunk  of  Miguel  and  cough,  and  laugh,  and  invoke 
the  dead  man  with  scoffs  and  jeers.  t 

Of  Melville's  shipmates,  surely  this  Jackson  was  the  most 
remarkable :  a  fit  rival  to  Conrad's  Nigger  of  the  Narcissus. 
Max  and  the  Greenlander  were  merely  typical  old  tars.  Mr. 
Thompson,  the  grave  negro  cook,  with  his  leaning  towards 
metaphysics  and  his  disquisitions  on  original  sin,  together  with 
his  old  crony,  Lavendar  the  steward,  with  his  amorous  back- 
slidings,  his  cologne  water,  and  his  brimstone  pantaloons, 
though  mildly  diverting,  were  usual  enough.  Blunt,  too,  with 
his  collection  of  hair-oils,  and  his  dream-book,  and  his  flowing 
bumpers  of  horse-salts,  though  picturesque,  was  pale  in  com 
parison  with  Jackson.  Larry,  the  old  whaler,  with  his  senti 
mental  distaste  for  civilised  society,  was  a  forerunner  of  Mr. 
H.  L.  Mencken ;  and  as  such,  deserves  a  more  prominent  men 
tion.  "And  what's  the  use  of  bein'  snivelizedt"  he  asks  Mel 
ville;  "snivelized  chaps  only  learn  the  way  to  take  on  'bout 
life,  and  snivel.  Blast  Ameriky,  I  say.  I  tell  ye,  ye  wouldn't 
have  been  to  sea  here,  leadin'  this  dog's  life,  if  you  hadn't 
been  snivelized.  Snivelization  has  been  the  ruin  on  ye ;  and  it's 
sp'iled  me  complete :  I  might  have  been  a  great  man  in  Mada- 
gasky;  it's  too  darned  bad!  Blast  Ameriky,  I  say." 

But  flat,  stale  and  unprofitable  seem  the  whole  ship's  com 
pany  in  comparison  with  the  demoniacal  Jackson.  Sainte- 
Beuve,  in  reviewing  an  early  work  of  Cooper's,  speaks  enthu 
siastically  of  Cooper's  "faculte  creatrice  qui  enfante  et  met  au 
monde  des  caracteres  nouveaux,  et  en  vertu  de  laquelle  Rabelais 


94  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

a  produit  Tanurge,'  Le  Sage  'Gil  Bias,'  et  Richardson  'Cla 
rissa.'  "  In  The  Confidence  Man  Melville  spends  a  chapter 
discussing  "originality"  in  literature.  The  phrase  "quite  an 
original"  he  maintains,  in  contempt  of  Sainte-Beuve,  is  "a 
phrase,  we  fancy,  oftener  used  by  the  young,  or  the  unlearned, 
or  the  untravelled,  than  by  the  old,  or  the  well-read,  or  the  man 
w-ho  has  made  the  grand  tour."  This  faculty  of  creating 
"originals" — which  is,  after  all,  as  both  Melville  and  Flaubert 
clearly  saw,  but  a  quality  of  observation — Melville  had  to  an 
unusual  degree.  In  this  incongruous  group  of  striking  "orig 
inals"  Jackson  deserves,  as  Melville  says,  a  "lofty  gallows." 

"Though  Tiberius  come  in  the  succession  of  the  Caesars, 
and  though  unmatchable  Tacitus  has  embalmed  his  carrion," 
writes  Melville  in  the  luxurious  cadence  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  which  some  of  his  critics  have  stigmatised  as  both 
the  sign  and  cause  of  his  later  "madness,"  "yet  do  I  account 
this  Yankee  Jackson  full  as  dignified  a  personage  as  he,  and 
as  \vell  meriting  his  lofty  gallows  in  history,  even  though  he 
was  a  nameless  vagabond  without  an  epitaph,  and  none  but  I 
narrate  what  he  was.  For  there  is  no  dignity  in  wickedness, 
whether  in  purple  or  rags :  and  hell  is  a  democracy  of  devils, 
where  all  are  equals.  In  historically  canonising  on  earth  the 
condemned  below,  and  lifting  up  and  lauding  the  illustrious 
damned,  we  do  but  make  ensamples  of  wickedness;  and  call 
upon  ambition  to  do  some  great  iniquity  to  be  sure  of  fame." 

When  Melville  came  to  know  Jackson,  nothing  was  left  of 
him  but  the  foul  lees  and  dregs  of  a  man;  a  walking  skeleton 
encased  in  a  skin  as  yellow  as  gamboge,  branded  with  the 
marks  of  a  fearful  end  near  at  hand:  "like  that  of  King 
AntiochUs  of  Syria,  who  died  a  worse  death,  history  says,  than 
if  he  had  been  stung  out  of  the  world  by  wasps  and  hornets." 
In  appearance  he  suggests  Villon  at  the  time  when  the  gal 
lows  spared  him  the  death-penalty  of  his  vices.  He  looked 
like  a  man  with  his  hair  shaved  off  and  just  recovering  from 
the  yellow  fever.  His  hair  had  fallen  out;  his  nose  was 
broken  in  the  middle;  he  squinted  in  one  eye.  But  to  Mel 
ville  that  squinting  eye  "was  the  most  deep,  subtle,  infernal- 
looking  eye  that  I  ever  saw  lodged  in  a  human  head.  I  be- 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL      95 

lieve  that  by  good  rights  it  must  have  belonged  to  a  wolf,  or 
starved  tiger;  at  any  rate  I  would  defy  any  oculist  to  turn  out 
a  glass  eye  half  so  cold  and  snaky  and  deadly."  He  wras  a 
foul-mouthed  bully,  and  "being  the  best  seaman  on  board,  and 
very  overbearing  every  way,  all  the  men  were  afraid  of  him, 
and  durst  not  contradict  him  or  cross  his  path  in  anything." 
And  what  made  this  more  remarkable  was,  that  he  was  the 
weakest  man,  bodily,  of  the  whole  crew.  "But  he  had  such 
an  over-awing  way  with  him ;  such  a  deal  of  brass  and  impu 
dence,  such  an  unflinching  face,  and  withal  was  such  a  hideous 
mortal,  that  Satan  himself  would  have  run  from  him."  The 
whole  crew  stood  in  mortal  fear  of  him,  and  cringed  and 
fawned  before  him  like  so  many  spaniels.  They  would  rub 
his  back  after  he  was  undressed  and  lying  in  his  bunk,  and  run 
up  on  deck  to  the  cook-house  to  warm  some  cold  coffee  for 
him,  and  fill  his  pipe,  and  give  him  chews  of  tobacco,  and  mend 
his  jackets  and  trousers,  and  watch  and  tend  and  nurse  him 
every  way.  "And  all  the  time  he  would  sit  scowling  on  them, 
and  found  fault  with  what  they  did :  and  I  noticed  that  those 
who  did  the  most  for  him  were  the  ones  he  most  abused." 
These  he  flouted  and  jeered  and  laughed  to  scorn,  on  occasion 
breaking  out  in  such  a  rage  that  "his  lips  glued  together  at 
the  corners  with  a  fine  white  foam." 

His  age  it  was  impossible  to  tell :  for  he  had  no  beard,  and 
no  wrinkles  except  for  small  crow's-feet  about  the  eyes.  He 
might  have  been  thirty,  or  perhaps  fifty  years.  "But  accord 
ing  to  his  own  account,  he  had  been  at  sea  ever  since  he  was 
eight  years  old,  when  he  first  went  to  sea  as  a  cabin-boy  in 
an  Indiaman,  and  ran  away  at  Calcutta."  And  according  to 
his  own  account,  too,  he  had  passed  through  every  kind  of 
dissipation  and  abandonment  in  the  worst  parts  of  the  world. 
He  had  served  in  Portuguese  slavers  on  the  coast  of  Africa, 
and  with  diabolical  relish  would  tell  of  the  middle  passage 
where  the  slaves  were  stowed,  heel  and  point,  like  logs,  and  the 
suffocated  and  dead  were  unmanacled  and  weeded  out  from  the 
living  each  morning  before  washing  down  the  decks.  Though 
he  was  apt  to  be  dumb  at  times,  and  would  sit  with  "his  eyes 
fixed,  and  his  teeth  set,  like  a  man  in  the  moody  madness," 


96  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

yet  when  he  did  speak  his  whole  talk  was  full  of  piracies, 
plagues,  poisonings,  seasoned  with  filth  and  blasphemy. 
"Though  he  never  attended  churches  and  knew  nothing  of 
Christianity;  no  more  than  a  Malay  pirate;  and  though  he 
could  not  read  a  word,  yet  he  was  spontaneously  an  atheist  and 
an  infidel ;  and  during  the  long  night  watches,  would  enter  into 
arguments  to  prove  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  believed; 
nothing  to  be  loved,  and  nothing  worth  living  for ;  but  every 
thing  to  be  hated  in  the  wide  world.  He  was  a  Cain  afloat; 
branded  on  his  yellow  brow  with  some  inscrutable  curse;  and 
going  about  corrupting  and  searing  every  heart  that  beat 
near  him." 

The  last  scene  in  his  eventful  history  took  place  off  Cape 
Cod,  when,  in  a  stiff  favourable  breeze,  the  captain  was  impa 
tient  to  make  his  port  before  a  shift  of  wind.  Four  sullen 
weeks  previous  to  this  had  Jackson  spent  in  the  forecastle  with 
out  touching  a  rope.  Every  day  since  leaving  New  York 
Jackson  had  seemed  to  be  growing  worse  and  worse,  both  in 
body  and  mind.  "And  all  the  time,  though  his  face  grew 
thinner  and  thinner,  his  eyes  seemed  to  kindle  more  and  more, 
as  if  he  were  going  to  die  out  at  last,  and  leave  them  burning 
like  tapers  before  his  corpse."  When,  after  these  four  weeks 
of  idleness,  Jackson,  to  the  surprise  of  the  crew,  came  up  on 
deck,  his  aspect  was  damp  and  death-like;  the  blue  hollows 
of  his  eyes  were  like  vaults  full  of  snakes ;  and  issuing  so  unex 
pectedly  from  his  dark  tomb  in  the  forecastle,  he  looked  like  a 
man  raised  from  the  dead. 

"Before  the  sailors  had  made  fast  the  reef-tackle,  Jackson 
was  tottering  up  the  rigging;  thus  getting  the  start  of  them, 
and  securing  his  place  at  the  extreme  weather-end  of  the  top 
sail  yard — which  in  reefing  is  accounted  the  place  of  honour. 
For  it  was  one  of  the  characteristics  of  this  man  that  though 
when  on  duty  he  would  shy  away  from  mere  dull  work  in  a 
calm,  yet  in  tempest  time  he  always  claimed  the  van  and  would 
yield  to  none. 

"Soon  we  were  all  strung  along  the  main-topsail  yard ;  the 
ship  rearing  and  plunging  under  us  like  a  runaway  steed ;  each 
man  griping  his  reef-point,  and  sideways  leaning,  dragging  the 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  PISTOL  AND  BALL      97 

sail  over  towards  Jackson,  whose  business  it  was  to  confine  the 
reef  corner  to  the  yard. 

"His  hat  and  shoes  were  off ;  and  he  rode  the  yard-arm  end, 
leaning  backward  to  the  gale,  and  pulling  at  the  earing-rope 
like  a  bridle.  At  all  times,  this  is  a  moment  of  frantic  exer 
tion  with  sailors,  whose  spirits  seem  then  to  partake  of  the 
commotion  of  the  elements  as  they  hang  in  the  gale  between 
heaven  and  earth;  and  then  it  is,  too,  that  they  are  the  most 
profane. 

"  'Haul  out  to  windward !'  coughed  Jackson,  with  a  blas 
phemous  cry,  and  he  threw  himself  back  with  a  violent  strain 
upon  the  bridle  in  his  hand.  But  the  wild  words  were  hardly 
out  of  his  mouth  when  his  hands  dropped  to  his  side,  and  the 
bellying  sail  was  spattered  with  a  torrent  of  blood  from  his 
lungs. 

"As  the  man  next  him  stretched  out  his  arm  to  save,  Jackson 
fell  headlong  from  the  yard,  and  with  a  long  seethe,  plunged 
like  a  diver  into  the  sea. 

"It  was  when  the  ship  had  rolled  to  windward,  which,  with 
the  long  projection  of  the  yard-arm  over  the  side,  made  him 
strike  far  out  upon  the  water.  His  fall  was  seen  by  the  whole 
upward-gazing  crowd  on  deck,  some  of  whom  were  spotted 
with  the  blood  that  trickled  from  the  sail,  while  they  raised 
a  spontaneous  cry,  so  shrill  and  wild  that  a  blind  man  might 
have  known  something  deadly  had  happened. 

"Clutching  our  reef-joints,  we  hung  over  the  stick,  and 
gazed  down  to  the  one  white  bubbling  spot  which  had  closed 
over  the  head  of  our  shipmate;  but  the  next  minute  it  was 
brewed  into  the  common  yeast  of  the  waves,  and  Jackson 
never  arose.  We  waited  a  few  minutes,  expecting  an  order 
to  descend,  haul  back  the  fore-yard,  and  man  the  boats;  but^ 
instead  of  that,  the  next  sound  that  greeted  us  was,  'Bear  a 
hand  and  reef  away,  men!'  from  the  mate." 


CHAPTER  V 

DISCOVERIES    ON    TWO  CONTINENTS 

"If  you  read  of  St.  Peter's,  they  say,  and  then  go  and  visit  it,  ten  to 
one,  you  account  it  a  dwarf  compared  to  your  high-raised  ideal.  And, 
doubtless,  Jonah  himself  must  have  been  much  disappointed  when  he 
looked  up  to  the  domed  midriff  surmounting  the  whale's  belly,  and  sur 
veyed  the  ribbed  pillars  around  him.  A  pretty  large  belly,  to  be  sure, 
thought  he,  but  not  so  big  as  it  might  have  been." 

—HERMAN    MELVILLE  :    Redbum. 

THE  merchantman  on  which  Melville  shipped  was  not  a 
Liverpool  liner,  or  packet-ship,  plying  in  connection  with  a 
sisterhood  of  packets.  She  was  a  regular  trader  to  Liverpool ; 
sailing  upon  no  fixed  days,  and  acting  very  much  as  she  pleased, 
being  bound  by  no  obligation  of  any  kind,  though  in  all  her 
voyages  ever  having  New  York  or  Liverpool  for  her  destina 
tion.  Melville's  craft  was  not  a  greyhound,  not  a  very  fast 
sailer.  The  swifter  of  the  packet  ships  then  made  the  passage 
in  fifteen  or  sixteen  days ;  the  Highlander,  travelling  at  a  more 
matronly  pace,  was  out  on  the  Atlantic  a  leisurely  month. 

"It  was  very  early  in  the  month  of  June  that  we  sailed," 
says  Melville;  "and  I  had  greatly  rejoiced  that  it  was  that 
time  of  year;  for  it  would  be  warm  and  pleasant  upon  the 
ocean  I  thought ;  and  my  voyage  would  be  like  a  summer  excur 
sion  to  the  seashore  for  the  benefit  of  the  salt  water,  and  a 
change  of  scene  and  society."  But  the  fact  was  not  identical 
with  Melville's  fancy,  and  before  many  days  at  sea,  he  found 
it  a  galling  mockery  to  remember  that  his  sisters  had  promised 
to  tell  all  enquiring  friends  that  he  had  gone  "abroad" :  "just 
as  if  I  was  visiting  Europe  on  a  tour  with  my  tutor."  Though 
his  thirty  days  at  sea  considerably  disabused  him — for  the 
time — of  the  unmitigated  delights  of  ocean  travel  in  the  fore 
castle  ;  still  always  in  the  vague  and  retreating  distance  did  he 
hold  to  the  promise  of  some  stupendous  discovery  still  in  store. 
Finally,  one  morning  when  he  came  on  deck,  he  was  thrilled 


DISCOVERIES  ON  TWO  CONTINENTS      99 

to  discover  that  he  was,  in  sober  fact,  within  sight  of  a  foreign 
land :  a  shore-line  that  in  imagination  he  transformed  into  the 
seacoast  of  Bohemia.  "A  foreign  country  actually  visible!" 
But  as  he  gazed  ashore,  disillusion  ran  hot  upon  the  heels  of  his 
romantic  expectations. 

"Was  that  Ireland?  Why,  there  was  nothing  remarkable 
about  that;  nothing  startling.  If  that's  the  way  a  foreign 
country  looks,  I  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home.  Now 
what,  exactly,  I  had  fancied  the  shore  would  look  like,  I  can 
not  say;  but  I  had  a  vague  idea  that  it  would  be  something 
strange  and  wonderful." 

The  next  land  they  sighted  was  Wales.  "It  was  high  noon, 
and  a  long  line  of  purple  mountains  lay  like  a  bank  of  clouds 
against  the  east.  But,  after  all,  the  general  effect  of  these 
mountains  was  mortifyingly  like  the  general  effect  of  the 
Kaatskill  Mountains  on  the  Hudson  River." 

It  was  not  until  midnight  of  the  third  day  that  they  arrived 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Mersey.  Before  the  following  daybreak 
they  took  the  first  flood. 

"Presently,  in  the  misty  twilight,  we  passed  immense  buoys, 
and  caught  sight  of  distant  objects  on  shore,  vague  and  shad 
owy  shapes,  like  Ossian's  ghosts."  And  then  it  was  that  Mel 
ville  found  leisure  to  lean  over  the  side,  "trying  to  summon 
up  some  image  of  Liverpool,  to  see  how  the  reality  would 
answer  to  my  concept." 

As  the  day  advanced,  the  river  contracted,  and  in  the  clear 
morning  Melville  got  his  first  sharp  impression  of  a  foreign 
port. 

"I  beheld  lofty  ranges  of  dingy  ware-houses,  which  seemed 
very  deficient  in  the  elements  of  the  marvellous;  and  bore  a 
most  unexpected  resemblance  to  the  ware-houses  along  South 
Street  in  New  York.  There  was  nothing  strange,  nothing  ex 
traordinary  about  them.  There  they  stood;  a  row  of  calm 
and  collected  ware-houses;  very  good  and  substantial  edifices, 
doubtless,  and  admirably  adapted  to  the  ends  had  in  view  by 
the  builders :  but  yet,  these  edifices,  I  must  confess,  were  a  sad 
and  bitter  disappointment  to  me." 

Melville  was  six  weeks  in  Liverpool.     Of  this  part  of  his 


100  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

adventure,  he  says  in  Redburn:  "I  do  not  mean  to  present  a 
diary  of  my  stay  there.  I  shall  here  simply  record  the  general 
tenor  of  the  life  led  by  our  crew  during  that  interval;  and 
will  proceed  to  note  down,  at  random,  my  own  wanderings 
about  town,  and  impressions  of  things  as  they  are  recalled  to 
me  now  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  (tv/elve)  years." 

Not  the  least  important  detail  of  these  six  weeks  is  the  fact 
that  Melville  and  his  ship-mates  were  very  well  fed  at  the 
sign  of  the  Baltimore  Clipper.  "The  roast  beef  of  Old  Eng 
land  abounded;  and  so  did  the  immortal  plum-puddings  and  the 
unspeakably  capital  gooseberry  pies."  Owing  to  the  strict  but 
necessary  regulations  of  the  Liverpool  docks,  no  fire  of  any 
kind  was  allowed  on  board  the  vessels  within  them.  And 
hence,  though  the  sailors  of  the  Highlander  slept  in  the  fore 
castle,  they  were  fed  ashore  at  the  expense  of  the  ship's  owners. 
This,  in  a  large  crew  remaining  at  Liverpool  more  than  six 
weeks,  as  the  Highlander  did,  formed  no  inconsiderable  item 
in  the  expenses  of  the  voyage.  The  Baltimore  Clipper  was  one 
of  the  boarding  houses  near  the  clocks  which  flourished  on  the 
appetite  of  sailors.  At  the  Baltimore  Clipper  was  fed  not  only 
the  crew  of  the  Highlander,  but,  each  in  a  separate  apartment, 
a  variety  of  other  crews  as  well.  Since  each  crew  was  known 
collectively  by  the  name  of  its  ship,  the  shouts  of  the  servant 
girls  running  about  at  dinner  time  mustering  their  guests  must 
have  been  alarming  to  an  uninitiated  visitor. 

"Where  are  the  Empresses  of  China? — Here's  their  beef 
been  smoking  this  half-hour"-  -"Fly,  Betty,  my  dear,  here 
come  the  Panthers" — "Run,  Molly,  my  love ;  get  the  salt-cellars 
for  the  Splendids" — "You,  Peggy,  where's  the  Siddons' 
pickle-pot?" — "I  say,  Judy,  are  you  never  coming  with  that 
pudding  for  the  Sultans?" 

It  was  to  the  Baltimore  Clipper  that  Jackson  immediately 
led  the  ship's  crew  when  they  first  sprang  ashore :  up  this  street 
and  down  that  till  at  last  he  brought  them  to  their  destina 
tion  in  a  narrow  lane  filled  with  boarding-houses,  spirit-vaults 
and  sailors.  While  Melville's  shipmates  were  engaged  in  tip 
pling  and  talking  with  numerous  old  acquaintances  of  theirs  in 
the  neighbourhood  who  thronged  about  the  door,  he  sat  alone 


DISCOVERIES  ON  TWO  CONTINENTS    101 

in  the  dining-room  appropriated  to  the  Highlanders  "meditat 
ing  upon  the  fact  that  I  was  now  seated  upon  an  English  bench, 
under  an  English  roof,  in  an  English  tavern,  forming  an  in 
tegral  part  of  the  British  empire." 

Melville  examined  the  place  attentively.  "It  was  a  long 
narrow  little  room,  with  one  small  arched  window  with  red 
curtains,  looking  out  upon  a  smoky,  untidy  yard,  bounded  by 
a  dingy  brick  wall,  the  top  of  which  was  horrible  with  pieces 
of  broken  old  bottles  stuck  into  mortar.  A  dull  lamp  swung 
overhead,  placed  in  a  wooden  ship  suspended  from  the  ceiling. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  a  paper,  representing  an  endless 
succession  of  vessels  of  all  nations  continually  circumnavigat 
ing  the  apartment.  From  the  street  came  a  confused  uproar  of 
ballad-singers,  bawling  women,  babies,  and  drunken  sailors." 

It  was  during  this  disenchanting  examination  that  the  reali 
sation  began  to  creep  chillingly  over  Melville  that  his  prospect 
of  seeing  the  world  as  a  sailor  was,  after  all,  but  very  doubt 
ful.  It  seems  never  to  have  struck  him  before  that  sailors  but 
hover  about  the  edges  of  terra-firma ;  that  "they  land  only  upon 
wharves  and  pier-heads,  and  their  reminiscences  of  travel  are 
only  a  dim  recollection  of  a  chain  of  tap-rooms  surrounding 
the  globe." 

Melville's  six  weeks  in  Liverpool  offered  him,  however,  op 
portunity  to  make  slightly  more  extended  observations.  Dur 
ing  these  weeks  he  was  free  to  go  where  he  pleased  between 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  the  following  dawn.  Sun 
days  he  had  entirely  at  his  own  disposal.  But  withal,  it  was  an 
excessively  limited  and  distorted  version  of  England  that  was 
open  for  his  examination.  Except  for  his  shipmates,  his  very 
distant  cousin,  the  Earl  of  Leven  and  Melville  and  Queen  Vic 
toria  and  such  like  notables,  he  knew  by  name  no  living  soul 
in  the  British  Isles.  And  neither  his  companions  in  the  fore 
castle,  nor  the  remote  and  elaborately  titled  strangers  of  Mel 
ville  House,  offered  encouragement  of  an  easy  and  glowing  in 
timacy.  With  but  three  dollars  as  his  net  capital — money  ad 
vanced  him  in  Liverpool  by  the  ship — and  without  a  thread  of 
presentable  clothing  on  his  back,  he  could  not  hope  promis 
cuously  to  ingratiate  himself  either  by  his  purse  or  the  adorn- 


102  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ments  of  his  person.  Thus  lacking  in  the  fundamentals  of 
friendship,  his  native  charms  stood  him  in  little  stead.  So 
alone  he  walked  the  streets  of  Liverpool  and  gratuitously  saw 
the  sights. 

While  on  the  high  seas,  Melville  had  improved  his  fallow 
hours  by  poring  over  an  old  guide-book  of  Liverpool  that  had 
descended  to  him  from  his  father.  This  old  family  relic  was 
to  Melville  cherished  with  a  passionate  and  reverent  affection. 
Around  it  clustered  most  of  the  fond  associations  that  are  the 
cords  of  man.  It  had  been  handled  by  Allan  amid  the  very 
scenes  it  described;  it  bore  some  "half-effaced  miscellaneous 
memoranda  in  pencil,  characteristic  of  a  methodical  mind,  and 
therefore  indubitably  my  father's"  :  jottings  of  "a  strange,  sub 
dued,  old,  midsummer  interest"  to  Melville.  And  on  the  fly 
leaves  were  crabbed  inscriptions,  and  "crayon  sketches  of  wild 
animals  and  falling  air-castles."  These  decorations  were  the 
handiwork  of  Melville  and  his  brothers  and  sisters  and  cousins. 
Of  his  own  contributions,  Melville  says  :  "as  poets  do  with  their 
juvenile  sonnets,  I  might  write  under  this  horse,  'Drawn  at  the 
age  of  three  years'  and  under  this  autograph,  'Executed  at  the 
age  of  eight.' '  This  guide-book  was  to  Melville  a  sacred  vol 
ume,  and  he  expresses  a  wish  that  he  might  immortalise  it. 
Addressing  this  unpretentious  looking  little  green-bound, 
spotted  and  tarnished  guide-book,  he  exclaims :  "Dear  book !  I 
will  sell  my  Shakespeare,  and  even  sacrifice  my  old  quarto  Ho 
garth,  before  I  will  part  from  you.  Yes,  I  will  go  to  the  ham 
mer  myself,  ere  I  send  you  to  be  knocked  down  in  the  auc 
tioneer's  scrambles.  I  will,  my  beloved;  till  you  drop  leaf 
from  leaf,  and  letter  from  letter,  you  shall  have  a  snug  shelf 
somewhere,  though  I  have  no  bench  for  myself." 

To  the  earlier  manuscript  additions  to  this  guide-book,  Mel 
ville  added,  while  on  the  Atlantic,  drawings  of  ships  and  an 
chors,  and  snatches  of  Dibdin's  sea-poetry.  And  as  he  lay  in 
his  bunk,  with  the  aid  of  this  antiquated  volume  he  used  to 
take  "pleasant  afternoon  rambles  through  the  town,  down  St. 
James  street  and  up  Great  George's,  stopping  at  various  places 
of  interest  and  attraction"  so  familiar  seemed  the  features  of 
the  map.  But  in  this  vagabondage  of  reverie  he  was  but  pre- 


DISCOVERIES  ON  TWO  CONTINENTS    103 

paring  for  himself  a  poignant  disillusionment.  Lying  in  the 
dim,  reeking  forecastle,  with  his  head  full  of  deceitful  day 
dreams,  he  was  being  tossed  by  the  creaking  ship  towards  a 
bitter  awakening.  The  Liverpool  of  the  guide-book  purported 
to  be  the  Liverpool  of  1808.  The  Liverpool  of  which  Mel 
ville  dreamed  was,  of  course,  without  date  and  local  habitation. 
When  Melville  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  solid  real 
ity  of  the  Liverpool  of  1837,  he  was  offered  an  object-lesson 
in  mutability.  As  the  brute  facts  smote  in  the  face  of  his 
cherished  sentimentalisings,  he  sat  his  concrete  self  down  on 
a  particular  shop  step  in  a  certain  street  in  Liverpool,  reflected 
on  guide-books  and  luxuriated  in  disenchantment.  "Guide 
books,"  he  then  came  to  see,  "are  the  least  reliable  books  in  all 
literature :  and  nearly  all  literature,  in  one  sense,  is  made  up  of 
guide-books.  Old  ones  tell  us  the  ways  our  fathers  went ;  but 
how  few  of  those  former  places  can  their  posterity  trace."  In 
the  end  he  sealed  his  moralising  by  the  pious  reflection  that 
"there  is  one  Holy  Guide-Book  that  will  never  lead  you  astray 
if  you  but  follow  it  aright."  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
ghost  of  Allan,  retracing  its  mundane  haunts  at  that  moment 
trailed  its  shadowy  substance  through  the  offspring  of  its  dis 
carded  flesh. 

If  this  same  paternal  ghost,  recognising  its  kinship  with  this 
obstruction  of  blood  and  bone,  tracked  in  futile  affection  at 
Melville's  heels  through  Liverpool,  only  a  posthumous  survival 
of  its  terrestrial  Calvinism  could  have  spared  it  an  agonised 
six  weeks;  only  the  sardonic  optimism  of  a  faith  in  predestina 
tion  could  have  saved  Allan's  shade  from  consternation  and 
fear  at  the  chances  of  Melville's  flesh.  Or  it  may  be  that  Allan 
was  sent  as  a  disembodied  spectator  to  haunt  Melville's  wake, 
by  way  of  penance  for  his  pre-ghostly  theological  errors. 
In  any  event,  Melville,  on  occasion,  took  Allan  through  the 
most  hideous  parts  of  Liverpool.  Of  evenings  they  strolled 
through  the  narrow  streets  where  the  sailors'  boarding-houses 
were.  "Hand-organs,  fiddlers,  and  cymbals,  plied  by  strolling 
musicians,  mixed  with  the  songs  of  seamen,  the  babble  of 
women  and  children,  and  groaning  and  whining  of  beggars. 
From  the  various  boarding-houses  proceeded  the  noise  of  rev- 


104  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

elry  and  dancing:  and  from  the  open  casements  leaned  young 
girls  and  old  women  chattering  and  laughing  with  the  crowds 
in  the  middle  of  the  street."  In  the  vicinity  were  ''notorious 
Corinthian  haunts  which  in  depravity  are  not  to  be  matched  by 
anything  this  side  of  the  pit  that  is  bottomless."  Along 
Rotten-row,  Gibraltar-place  and  Boodle-alley  Melville  surveyed 
the  "sooty  and  begrimed  bricks"  of  haunts  of  abomination 
which  to  Melville's  boyish  eyes  (seen  through  the  protecting 
lens  of  Allan's  ghost)  had  a  "reeking,  Sodom-like  and  mur 
derous  look."  Melville  excuses  himself  in  the  name  of  pro 
priety  from  particularising  the  vices  of  the  residents  of  this 
quarter;  "but  kidnappers  and  resurrectionists,"  he  declares, 
"are  almost  saints  and  angels  to  them." 

Melville  satirically  pictures  himself  as  pathetically  innocent 
to  the  iniquities  of  the  flesh  and  the  Devil  when  he  left  home 
to  view  the  world.  He  was,  he  says,  a  member  both  of  a  Juve 
nile  Total  Abstinence  Association  and  of  an  Anti-Smoking  So 
ciety  organised  by  the  Principal  of  his  Sunday  School.  With 
dire  compunctions  of  conscience — which  had  been  considerably 
weakened  by  sea-sickness — Melville  had  his  first  swig  of  spirits 
— administered  medicinally  to  him  by  a  paternal  old  tar, — be 
fore  they  were  many  hours  out  upon  the  Atlantic.  But  neither 
on  the  high  seas  nor  in  England  does  he  seem  to  have  been 
prematurely  tempted  by  the  bottle.  And  this,  for  the  ade 
quate  reason  that  united  to  his  innocence  of  years,  his  very 
limited  finances  spared  him  the  solicitations  of  toping  com 
panions  as  well  as  the  luxury  of  precocious  solitary  tippling. 
Though  at  the  beginning  of  the  voyage  he  refused  the  friendly 
offer  of  a  cigar,  he  less  austerely  eschewed  tobacco  by  the  time 
he  again  struck  land.  Melville  did  not,  throughout  his  life, 
hold  so  strictly  to  the  puritanical  prohibitions  of  his  boyhood. 

The  youthful  member  of  the  Anti-Smoking  Society  came 
in  later  years  to  be  a  heroic  consumer  of  tobacco,  and  the 
happiest  hours  of  his  life  were  haloed  with  brooding  blue  haze. 
"Nothing  so  beguiling,"  he  wrote  in  1849,  "as  tne  fumes  of 
tobacco,  whether  inhaled  through  hookah,  narghil,  chibouque, 
Dutch  porcelain,  pure  Principe,  or  Regalia."  On  another  occa 
sion  he  expressed  a  desire  to  "sit  cross-legged  and  smoke  out 


A^ 


A   PAGE    FROM    OXE    OF    MELVILLE'S   JOURNALS 


DISCOVERIES  ON  TWO  CONTINENTS    105 

eternity/'  And  the  youthful  pillar  of  the  Juvenile  Total  Ab 
stinence  Association,  growing  in  wisdom  as  he  took  on  years, 
lived  to  do  regal  penance  for  his  unholy  childhood  pledge. 
His  avowed  refusal  to  believe  in  a  Temperance  Heaven  would 
seem  to  imply  a  conviction  that  it  is  only  the  damned  who 
never  drink.  In  his  amazing  novel  Mardi — which  won  him  ac 
claim  in  France  as  "itn  Rabelais  Americain" — wine  flows  in 
ruddy  and  golden  rivers.  And  the  most  brilliantly  fantastic 
philosophising,  the  keenest  wit  of  the  demi-gods  that  lounge 
through  this  wild  novel,  are  concomitant  upon  the  heroic  drain 
ing  of  beaded  bumpers.  In  Mardi,  Melville  celebrates  the 
civilising  influences  of  wine  with  the  same  devout  and  urbane 
affection  to  be  found  in  Horace  and  Meredith.  On  occasion, 
however,  he  seems  to  share  Baudelaire's  conviction  that  "one 
should  be  drunk  always" — and  drunk  on  wine  in  the  manner 
of  the  best  period.  He  quotes  with  approval  the  epitaph  of 
Cyrus  the  Great:  "I  could  drink  a  great  deal  of  wine,  and  it 
did  me  a  great  deal  of  good."  In  Clarel  he  asks :  "At  Cana, 
who  renewed  the  wine?"  In  the  riotous  chapter  wherein 
"Taji  sits  down  to  Dinner  with  five-and-twenty  Kings,  and  a 
royal  Time  they  have,"  there  is  an  exuberant  tilting  of  cala 
bashes  that  would  have  won  the  esteem  even  of  Socrates  and 
Pantagruel.  One  wonders  if  Rabelais,  in  his  youth,  did  not 
belong  to  some  Juvenile  Total  Abstinence  Society,  or  if  So 
crates,  who  both  lived  and  died  over  a  cup,  had  not  as  a  boy 
committed  an  equally  heinous  sacrilege  to  Dionysus. 

On  board  the  Highlander  Melville  was  too  young  yet  to  have 
come  to  a  sense  of  the  iniquity  of  the  deadly  virtues.  He  was 
not  thereby,  however,  tempted  to  the  optimism  of  despair  that 
preaches  that  because  God  is  isolated  in  His  Heaven,  all  is 
right  with  the  world.  Even  at  seventeen  Melville  had  keenly 
felt  that  much  in  the  world  needs  mending.  And  at  seven 
teen — more  than  at  any  other  period — he  felt  moved  to  exert 
himself  to  set  the  world  aright.  Ashipboard,  the  field  of  his 
operations  being  very  limited,  he  cast  a  missionary  eye  upon 
the  rum-soaked  profanity  and  lechery  of  his  ship-mates.  "I 
called  to  mind  a  sermon  I  had  once  heard  in  a  church  in  be 
half  of  sailors,"  says  Melville,  "when  the  preacher  called  them 


106  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

strayed  lambs  from  the  fold,  and  compared  them  to  poor  lost 
children,  babes  in  the  wood,  or  orphans  without  fathers  or 
mothers."  Overflowing  with  the  milk  of  human  kindness  at 
the  sad  condition  of  these  amiable  outcasts,  Melville,  during 
his  first  watch,  made  bold  to  ask  one  of  them  if  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  going  to  church.  The  sailor  answered  that  "he  had 
been  in  a  church  once,  some  ten  or  twelve  years  before,  in 
London,  and  on  a  week-day  had  helped  to  move  the  Floating 
Chapel  round  the  Battery  from  North  River."  This  first  and 
last  effort  of  Melville's  to  evangelise  a  shipmate  ended  in  win 
ning  Melville  hearty  ridicule.  "If  I  had  not  felt  so  terribly 
angry,"  he  says,  "I  should  certainly  have  felt  very  much  like 
a  fool.  But  my  being  so  angry  prevented  me  from  feeling 
foolish,  which  is  very  lucky  for  people  in  a  passion."  Though 
Melville  made  no  further  effort  to  save  the  souls  of  his  ship 
mates,  his  own  seems  not  to  have  been  jeopardised  by  any 
hankering  after  the  instruments  of  damnation. 

As  has  been  said,  he  was  without  friends,  both  ashipboard 
and  later  ashore;  a  complete  absence  of  companionship  that  on 
occasion  inspired  him  with  a  parched  desire  for  some  friend  to 
whom  to  say  "how  sweet  is  solitude."  He  craved  in  his  isola 
tion,  he  says,  "to  give  his  whole  soul  to  another;  in  its  lone 
liness  it  was  yearning  to  throw  itself  into  the  unbounded  bosom 
of  some  immaculate  friend."  In  Rcdburn,  Melville  spends  a 
generous  number  of  pages  in  celebrating  his  encounter  with  a 
good-for-nothing  but  courtly  youth  whom  he  calls  Harry  Bol- 
ton.  "He  was  one  of  those  small,  but  perfectly  formed  beings 
with  curling  hair,  and  silken  muscles,  who  seem  to  have  been 
born  in  cocoons.  His  complexion  was  a  mantling  brunette, 
feminine  as  a  girl's;  his  feet  were  small;  his  hands  were  white; 
and  his  eyes  were  large,  black  and  womanly :  and,  poetry  aside, 
his  voice  was  as  the  sound  of  a  harp."  How  much  of  Harry 
Bolton  is  fact,  how  much  fiction,  is  impossible  to  tell.  The 
most  significant  thing  about  him  is  Melville's  evident  affection 
for  him,  no  matter  who  made  him.  In  Rcdburn,  this  engag 
ing  dandy  kidnaps  Melville,  and  takes  him  for  a  mysterious 
night  up  to  London:  a  night  spent,  to  Melville's  consterna 
tion,  in  a  gambling  palace  of  the  sort  that  exists  only  in  the 


DISCOVERIES  ON  TWO  CONTINENTS    107 

febrile  and  envious  imagination  of  vitriolic  puritans.  In  his 
description  of  this  escapade,  Melville  owes  more,  perhaps,  to 
his  early  spiritual  guides  than  to  any  first-hand  observation. 
This  flight  to  London  in  Redburn,  its  abrupt  reversal,  and  the 
escape  to  America  of  Harry  Bolton,  may,  of  course,  all  be 
founded  on  sober  fact.  But  there  is  a  lack  of  verisimilitude 
in  the  recounting  that  prompts  to  the  suspicion  that  in  this 
part  of  the  narrative,  Melville  is  making  brave  and  uncon 
vincing  concessions  to  romance.  Not,  of  course,  that  Melville 
in  his  youth  was  incapable  of  the  wild  impetuosity  of  suddenly 
leaving  his  ship  and  running  up  to  London  with  an  engagingly 
romantic  stranger :  he  did  more  impulsive  and  far  more  sur 
prising  things  than  that  before  he  died.  But  his  account  of 
this  adventure  in  Redburn  reads  hollow  and  false.  Harry 
Bolton  must  be  discounted  as  myth  until  he  is  more  cogently 
substantiated  as  history. 

In  Liverpool  Melville  seems  to  have  spent  his  leisure  in  com 
pany  with  his  thoughts,  wandering  along  the  docks  and  about 
the  city.  Each  Sunday  morning  he  went  regularly  to  church; 
Sunday  afternoons  he  spent  walking  in  the  neighbouring 
country.  His  most  vivid  impressions  of  Liverpool  were  of 
the  terrible  poverty  he  saw,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  there  is  a 
more  ruthless  piece  of  realism  in  the  language  than  his  account 
in  Redburn  of  the  slow  death  through  starvation  of  the  mother 
and  children  that  Melville  found  lying  in  a  cellar,  and  whose 
lives  he  tried  in  vain  to  save.  The  green  cold  bodies  in  the 
morgue,  the  ragpickers,  the  variety  of  criminals  that  haunt  the 
shadows  of  the  docks :  these  too  came  in  for  characterisation. 

The  noblest  sight  that  Melville  found  in  England,  it  would 
seem,  was  the  truck-horses  he  saw  round  the  docks.  "So 
grave,  dignified,  gentlemanly  and  courteous  did  these  fine  truck 
horses  look — so  full  of  calm  intelligence  and  sagacity,  that 
often  I  endeavoured  to  get  into  conversation  with  them  as 
they  stood  in  contemplative  attitudes  while  their  loads  were 
preparing."  And  Melville  admired  the  truckmen  also.  "Their 
spending  so  much  of  their  valuable  lives  in  the  high-bred  com 
pany  of  their  horses  seems  to  have  mended  their  manners  and 
improved  their  taste;  but  it  has  also  given  to  them  a  sort  of 


108  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

refined  and  unconscious  aversion  to  human  society."  Though 
Melville  grew  to  a  most  uncomplimentary  rating  of  the  human 
biped,  he  always  cherished  a  very  deep  reverence  for  some  of 
his  four-footed  brothers.  "There  are  unknown  worlds  of 
knowledge  in  brutes,"  he  wrote;  "and  whenever  you  mark  a 
horse,  or  a  dog,  with  a  peculiarly  mild,  calm,  deep-seated  eye, 
be  sure  he  is  an  Aristotle  or  a  Kant,  tranquilly  speculating 
upon  the  mysteries  in  man." 

The  trip  back  across  the  Atlantic,  after  six  weeks  in  Liver 
pool,  though  longer  than  the  out-bound  passage,  was  for  Mel 
ville  less  of  an  ordeal.  He  was  no  longer  a  bewildered  stranger 
in  the  forecastle  or  in  the  riggings,  so  he  turned  his  eye  to  other 
parts  of  the  ship.  It  was  the  steerage  of  the  Highlander 
packed  with  its  four  or  five  hundred  emigrants,  that  gave  him 
most  bitter  occasion  to  reflect  on  the  criminal  nature  of  the 
universe.  Because  of  insufficient  provisions  in  food  for  an 
unexpectedly  prolonged  voyage,  the  dirty  weather,  and  the  ab 
sence  of  the  most  indispensable  conveniences,  these  emigrants 
suffered  almost  incredible  hardships.  Before  they  had  been 
at  sea  a  week,  to  hold  one's  head  down  the  fore  hatchway, 
Melville  says,  was  like  holding  it  down  a  suddenly  opened 
cesspool.  The  noisome  confinement  in  this  close  unventilated 
and  crowded  den,  and  the  deprivation  of  sufficient  food,  helped 
by  personal  uncleanliness,  brought  on  a  malignant  fever  among 
the  emigrants.  The  result  was  the  death  of  some  dozens  of 
them,  a  panic  throughout  the  ship,  and  a  novel  indulgence 
in  spasmodic  devotions.  "Horrible  as  the  sights  of  the  steer 
age  were,  the  cabin,  perhaps,  presented  a  scene  equally  de 
spairing.  Trunks  were  opened  for  Bibles ;  and  at  last,  even 
prayer-meetings  were  held  over  the  very  tables  across  which 
the  loud  jest  had  been  so  often  heard." 

But  with  the  coming  of  fair  winds  and  fine  weather  the 
pestilence  subsided,  and  the  ship  steered  merrily  towards  New 
York.  The  steerage  was  cleaned  thoroughly  with  sand  and 
water.  The  place  was  then  fumigated,  and  dried  with  pieces 
of  coal  from  the  gallery:  so  that  when  the  Highlander 
streamed  into  New  York  harbour  no  stranger  would  have  imag 
ined,  from  her  appearance,  that  the  Highlander  had  made  other 


DISCOVERIES  ON  TWO  CONTINENTS    109 

than  a  tidy  and  prosperous  voyage.  "Thus,  some  sea-cap 
tains  take  good  heed  that  benevolent  citizens  shall  not  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  true  condition  of  the  steerage  while  at  sea/' 

As  they  came  into  the  Narrows,  "no  more  did  we  think  of 
the  gale  and  the  plague ;  nor  turn  our  eyes  upward  to  the  stains 
of  blood  still  visible  on  the  topsail,  whence  Jackson  had  fallen. 
Oh,  he  who  has  never  been  afar,  let  him  once  go  from  home, 
to  know  what  home  is.  Hurra!  Hurra!  and  ten  thousand 
times  hurra!  down  goes  our  anchor,  fathoms  down  into  the 
free  and  independent  Yankee  mud,  one  handful  of  which  was 
now  worth  a  broad  manor  in  England." 

Melville  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  night  "walking  the 
deck  and  gazing  at  the  thousand  lights  of  the  city."  At  sun 
rise,  the  Highlander  warped  into  a  berth  at  the  foot  of  Wall 
street,  and  the  old  ship  was  knotted,  stem  and  stern,  to  the 
pier.  This  knotting  of  the  ship  was  the  unknotting  of  the 
bonds  of  the  sailors;  for,  the  ship  once  fast  to  the  wharf,  Mel 
ville  and  his  shipmates  were  free.  So  with  a  rush  and  a  shout 
they  bounded  ashore — all  but  Melville.  He  went  down  into 
the  forecastle  and  sat  on  a  chest.  The  ship  he  had  loathed, 
while  he  was  imprisoned  in  it,  grew  lovely  in  his  eyes  when 
he  was  free  to  bid  it  forever  farewell.  In  the  tarry  old  den 
he  sat,  the  only  inhabitant  of  the  deserted  ship  but  for  the 
mate  and  the  rats.  He  sat  there  and  let  his  eyes  linger  over 
every  familiar  old  plank.  "For  the  scene  of  suffering  is  a 
scene  of  joy  when  the  suffering  is  past,"  he  says,  inverting 
the  reflection  of  Dante;  "and  the  silent  reminiscence  of  hard 
ship  departed,  is  sweeter  than  the  presence  of  delight."  Ac 
cording  to  this  philosophy,  the  more  accumulated  and  over 
whelming  the  hardships  we  survive,  the  richer  and  sweeter 
will  be  the  ensuing  hours  of  thoughtful  recollection.  For 
whom  the  Lord  loveth  He  chasteneth.  And  pleasure's  crown 
of  pleasure  is  remembering  sorrier  things.  So  indoctrinated, 
Melville  should  have  viewed  the  concluding  scene  with  the 
captain  of  the  Highlander,  on  the  day  the  sailors  drew  their 
wages,  with  eternal  thanksgiving. 

"Seated  in  a  sumptuous  arm-chair,  behind  a  lustrous  inlaid 
desk,  sat  Captain  Riga,  arrayed  in  his  City  Hotel  suit,  look- 


110  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ing  magisterial  as  the  Lord  High  Admiral  of  England.  Hat 
in  hand,  the  sailors  stood  deferentially  in  a  semi-circle  before 
him,  while  the  captain  held  the  ship-papers  in  his  hand,  and 
one  by  one  called  their  names;  and  in  mellow  bank  notes — 
beautiful  sight! — paid  them  their  wages.  .  .  .  The  sailors, 
after  counting  their  cash  very  carefully,  and  seeing  all  was 
right,  and  not  a  bank-note  was  dog-eared,  in  which  case  they 
would  have  demanded  another,  salaamed  and  withdrew,  leav 
ing  me  face  to  face  with  the  Paymaster-general  of  the  Forces." 

Melville  stood  awhile,  looking  as  polite  as  possible,  he  says, 
and  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  his  name  called.  But 
no  such  name  did  he  hear.  "The  captain,  throwing  aside  his 
accounts,  lighted  a  very  fragrant  cigar,  took  up  the  morning 
paper — I  think  it  was  the  Herald — threw  his  leg  over  one  arm 
of  the  chair,  and  plunged  into  the  latest  intelligence  from  all 
parts  of  the  world." 

Melville  hemmed,  and  scraped  his  foot  to  increase  the  dis 
turbance.  The  Paymaster-general  looked  up.  Melville  de 
manded  his  wages.  The  captain  laughed,  and  taking  a  long 
inspiration  of  smoke,  removed  His  cigar,  and  sat  sideways 
looking  at  Melville,  letting  the  vapour  slowly  wriggle  and 
spiralise  out  of  his  mouth. 

"Captain  Riga,"  said  Melville,  "do  you  not  remember  that 
about  four  months  ago,  my  friend  Mr.  Jones  and  myself  had 
an  interview  with  you  in  this  very  cabin ;  when  it  was  agreed 
that  I  was  to  go  out  in  your  ship,  and  receive  three  dollars  per 
month  for  my  services  ?  Well,  Captain  Riga,  I  have  gone  out 
with  you,  and  returned;  and  now,  sir,  I'll  thank  you  for  my 
pay." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  remember,"  said  the  captain.  "Mr.  Jones! 
Ha !  Ha !  I  remember  Mr.  Jones :  a  very  gentlemanly  gentle 
man;  and  stop — you,  too,  are  the  son  of  a  wealthy  French 
importer;  and — let  me  think — was  not  your  great-uncle  a 
barber?" 

"No!"  thundered  Melville,  his  Gansevoort  temper  up. 

Captain  Riga  suavely  turned  over  his  accounts.  "Hum, 
hum ! — yes,  here  it  is :  Wellingborough  Redburn,  at  three  dol 
lars  a  month.  Say  four  months,  that's  twelve  dollars:  less 


DISCOVERIES  ON  TWO  CONTINENTS    111 

three  dollars  advanced  in  Liverpool — that  makes  it  nine  dol 
lars  ;  less  three  hammers  and  two  scrapers  lost  overboard — 
that  brings  it  to  four  dollars  and  a  quarter.  I  owe  you  four 
dollars  and  a  quarter,  I  believe,  young  gentleman?" 

"So  it  seems,"  said  Melville  with  staring  eyes. 

"And  now  let  me  see  what  you  owe  me,  and  then  we'll  be 
able  to  square  the  yards,  Monsieur  Redburn." 

"Owe  him!" — Melville  confesses  to  thinking;  "what  do  I 
owe  him  but  a  grudge."  But  Melville  concealed  his  resent 
ment.  Presently  Captain  Riga  said :  "By  running  away  from 
the  ship  in  Liverpool,  you  forfeited  your  wages,  which  amount 
to  twelve  dollars;  and  there  has  been  advanced  to  you,  in 
money,  hammers  and  scrapers,  seven  dollars  and  seventy-five 
cents ;  you  are  therefore  indebted  to  me  for  precisely  that  sum. 
I'll  thank  you  for  the  money."  He  extended  his  open  palm 
across  the  desk. 

The  precise  nature  of  Melville's  eloquence  at  this  juncture 
of  his  career  has  not  been  recorded.  Penniless,  he  left  the 
ship,  to  trail  after  his  shipmates  as  they  withdrew  along  the 
wharf  to  stop  at  a  sailors'  retreat,  poetically  denominated 
"The  Flashes."  Here  they  all  came  to  anchor  before  the  bar. 

"Well,  maties,"  said  one  of  them,  at  last — "I  s'pose  we 
shan't  see  each  other  again : — come,  let's  splice  the  mainbrace 
all  round,  and  drink  to  the  last  voyage." 

And  so  they  did.  Then  they  shook  hands  all  round,  three 
times  three,  and  disappeared  in  couples  through  the  several 
doorways. 

Melville  stood  on  the  corner  in  front  of  "The  Flashes"  till 
the  last  of  his  shipmates  was  out  of  sight.  Then  he  walked 
down  to  the  Battery,  and  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  place 
of  his  birth,  sat  on  one  of  the  benches,  under  the  summer 
shade  of  the.  trees.  It  was  a  quiet,  beautiful  scene,  he  says; 
full  of  promenading  ladies  and  gentlemen ;  and  through  the 
fresh  and  bright  foliage  he  looked  out  over  the  bay,  varied 
with  glancing  ships.  "It  would  be  a  pretty  fine  world,"  he 
thought,  "if  I  only  had  a  little  money  to  enjoy  it."  He  leaves 
it  ambiguous  whether  or  not  be  imbibed  his  optimism  at  "The 
Flashes."  Equally  veiled  does  he  leave  the  mystery  by  which 


112  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

he  came  by  the  money  to  pay  his  passage  on  the  steamboat  up 
to  Albany :  a  trip  he  took  that  afternoon.  "I  pass  over  the 
reception  I  met  with  at  home;  how  I  plunged  into  embraces, 
long  and  loving,"  he  says: — "I  pass  over  this." 

For  the  home  we  return  to,  is  never  the  home  that  we  leave, 
and  the  more  desperate  the  leave-taking,  the  more  bathetic 
the  return. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PEDAGOGY,  PUGILISM  AND  LETTERS 

"It  is  often  to  be  observed,  that  as  in  digging  for  precious  metals  in  the 
mines,  much  earthly  rubbish  has  first  to  be  troublesomely  handled  and 
thrown  out ;  so,  in  digging  in  one's  soul  for  the  fine  gold  of  genius,  much 
dulness  and  common-place  is  first  brought  to  light.  Happy  would  it  be, 
if  the  man  possessed  in  himself  some  receptacle  for  his  own  rubbish  of 
this  sort:  but  he  is  like  the  occupant  of  a  dwelling,  whose  refuse  cannot 
be  clapped  into  his  own  cellar,  but  must  be  deposited  in  the  street  before 
his  own  door,  for  the  public  functionaries  to  take  care  of." 

— HERMAN    MELVILLE  :   Pierre. 

THE  record  of  the  next  three  and  a  half  years  of  Melville's 
life  is  extremely  scant.  What  he  was  doing  and  thinking  and 
feeling  must  be  left  almost  completely  to  surmise.  In  the 
brief  record  of  his  life  preserved  in  the  Commonplace  Book 
of  his  wife,  this  period  between  Liverpool  and  the  South  Seas 
is  dismissed  in  a  single  sentence:  "Taught  school  at  intervals 
in  Pittsfield  and  in  Greenbush  (now  East  Albany)  N.  Y." 
Arthur  Stedman  (who  got  his  facts  largely  from  Mrs.  Mel 
ville),  in  his  "Biographical  and  Critical  Introduction"  to 
Typee,  slightly  enlarges  upon  this  statement.  "A  good  part 
of  the  succeeding  three  years,  from  1837  to  1840,"  says  Sted 
man,  "was  occupied  with  school  teaching.  While  so  engaged 
at  Greenbush,  now  East  Albany,  N.  Y.,  he  received  the  mu 
nificent  salary  of  'six  dollars  a  quarter  and  board/  He  taught 
for  one  term  at  Pittsfield,  Mass.,  'boarding  around'  with  the 
families  of  his  pupils,  in  true  American  fashion,  and  early 
suppressing,  on  one  memorable  occasion,  the  efforts  of  his 
larger  scholars  to  inaugurate  a  rebellion  by  physical  force." 
J.  E.  A.  Smith,  in  his  Biographical  Sketch  already  cited,  dates 
this  "memorable"  mating  of  pedagogy  and  pugilism  somewhat 
earlier. 

Besides  teaching  during  these  years,  Melville  was  engaged 
in  another  activity,  which  all  of  his  biographers — if  they  knew 
of  it  at  all — pass  over  in  decent  silence :  an  activity  to  which 
Melville  devotes  a  whole  book  of  Pierre. 

113 


114  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

"It  still  remains  to  be  said,"  says  Melville,  "that  Pierre  him 
self  had  written  many  a  fugitive  thing,  which  had  brought  him 
not  only  vast  credit  and  compliments  from  his  more  immediate 
acquaintances,  but  the  less  partial  applauses  of  the  always  in 
telligent  and  extremely  discriminating  public.  In  short,  Pierre 
had  frequently  done  that  which  many  other  boys  have  done- 
published.  Not  in  the  imposing  form  of  a  book,  but  in  the  more 
modest  and  becoming  way  of  occasional  contributions  to  maga 
zines  and  other  polite  periodicals.  Not  only  the  public  had  ap 
plauded  his  gemmed  little  sketches  of  thought  and  fancy;  but 
the  high  and  mighty  Campbell  clan  of  editors  of  all  sorts  had 
bestowed  upon  them  those  generous  commendations  which,  with 
one  instantaneous  glance,  they  had  immediately  perceived  was 
his  due.  .  .  .  One,  after  endorsingly  quoting  that  sapient,  sup 
pressed  maxim  of  Dr.  Goldsmith's,  which  asserts  that  what 
ever  is  new  is  false,  went  on  to  apply  it  to  the  excellent  pro 
ductions  before  him;  concluding  with  this:  'He  has  translated 
the  unruffled  gentleman  from  the  drawing-room  into  the  gen 
eral  levee  of  letters;  he  never  permits  himself  to  astonish;  is 
never  betrayed  into  anything  coarse  or  new;  as  assured  that 
whatever  astonishes  is  vulgar,  and  whatever  is  new  must  be 
crude.  Yes,  it  is  the  glory  of  this  admirable  young  author, 
that  vulgarity  and  vigour — two  inseparable  adjuncts — are 
equally  removed  from  him.' ' 

In  Pierre,  Melville  spends  more  than  twenty-five  closely 
printed  pages — half  satirical,  half  of  the  utmost  seriousness — 
discussing  his  own  literary  growth :  a  passage  of  the  highest 
critical  and  biographical  interest.  In  its  satirical  parts  the 
passage  is  consistently  double-edged;  therein,  Melville  ironic 
ally  praises  his  early  writing  for  possessing  those  very  defects 
which  his  maturer  work  was  damned  for  not  exhibiting.  It 
is  doubtless  true  that  his  juvenile  works  were  "equally  re 
moved  from  vulgarity  and  vigour."  They  were  "character 
ised  throughout  by  Perfect  Taste,"  as  he  makes  one  critic  ob 
serve  "in  an  ungovernable  burst  of  admiring  fury."  But  the 
Perfect  Taste  was  the  Perfect  Taste  of  Hannah  More,  and 
Dr.  Akenside,  and  Lalla  Rookh.  With  the  publication  of 
Typee,  Melville  was  charged  not  only  with  the  crimes  of  vul- 


PEDAGOGY,  PUGILISM,  LETTERS     115 

garity  and  vigour,  but  with  the  milder  accompanying  vices  of 
indecency  and  irreverence.  His  earliest  writings  were  un 
touched  by  any  of  these  taints.  In  Pierre,  Melville  speaks  of 
"a  renowned  clerical  and  philological  conductor  of  a  weekly 
religious  periodical,  whose  surprising  proficiency  in  the  Greek, 
Hebrew  and  Chaldaic,  to  which  he  had  devoted  by  far  the 
greater  part  of  his  life,  peculiarly  fitting  him  to  pronounce 
unerring  judgment  upon  works  of  taste  in  the  English."  Mel 
ville  makes  this  critic  thus  deliver  himself  on  Pierre's  early 
efforts  in  letters:  "He  is  blameless  in  morals,  and  harmless 
throughout."  Another  "unhesitatingly  recommended  his  ef 
fusions  to  the  family  circle."  A  third  had  no  reserve  in  say 
ing  that  "the  predominant  end  and  aim  of  this  writer  was 
evangelical  piety."  Melville  is  here  patently  satirising  the 
vitriolic  abuse  which  Typee  and  Omoo  provoked. 

Only  two  of  Melville's  earliest  effusions,  written  before  the 
world  had  "fairly  Timonised  him"  are  known  to  survive. 
These  appeared  in  The  Democratic  Press  and  Lansingburgh 
Advertiser  for  May  4,  and  May  18,  1839.  The  first  is  signed 
"L.  A.  V." ;  the  second,  known  to  exist  only  in  a  single  muti 
lated  clipping,  in  lacking  the  closing  paragraphs,  can  give  no 
evidence  as  to  concluding  signature.  Copies  of  these  two  ar 
ticles  are  preserved  among  Melville's  papers,  each  autographed 
by  him  in  faded  brown  ink.  The  interest  of  the  earlier  paper 
is  heightened  by  this  inscription,  in  Melville's  hand,  boldly 
scrawled  across  the  inner  margin:  "When  I  woke  up  this 
morning,  what  the  Devil  should  I  see  but  your  cane  along  in 
bed  with  me.  I  shall  keep  it  for  you  when  you  come  up  here 
again."  It  is  more  easy  to  imagine  Melville's  astonishment 
in  waking  to  find  such  a  stately  novelty  as  a  walking-stick  for 
a  bed-fellow,  than  to  fancy  how  the  walking-stick  found  itself 
in  such  an  unusual  environment.  It  is  about  as  futile  to 
inquire  into  the  history  and  meaning  of  this  incident  as  soberly 
to  debate  "what  songs  the  sirens  sang  and  what  name  Achilles 
bore  among  the  daughters  of  the  King  of  Scyros."  It  is  cer 
tain,  however,  that  the  Sirens  had  little  hand  in  Melville's 
juvenile  effusions.  And  of  this  fact  Melville  grew  to  be  keenly 
aware.  "In  sober  earnest,"  he  says  in  Pierre ,  "those  papers 


116  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

contained  nothing  uncommon;  indeed,  those  fugitive  things 
were  the  veriest  commonplace."  Yet  as  the  initial  literary  ef 
forts  of  a  man  who  wrote  Typee  and  Moby-Dick  they  are 
intensely  interesting :  interesting,  like  the  longer  prayers  of 
St.  Augustine,  less  because  of  their  content  than  because  of 
the  personality  from  which  they  were  derived. 

What  would  seem  to  be  Melville's  first  published  venture  in 
letters  is  here  given,  nearly  complete. 

For  the  Democratic  Press 

FRAGMENTS    FROM    A   WRITING   DESK 

No.  i 

MY  DEAR  M ,  I  can  imagine  you  seated  on  that  dear, 

delightful,  old-fashioned  sofa;  your  head  supported  by  its  lux 
urious  padding,  and  with  feet  perched  aloft  on  the  aspiring 
back  of  that  straight  limbed,  stiff-necked,  quaint  old  chair, 
which,  as  our  facetious  W assured  me,  was  the  iden 
tical  seat  in  which  old  Burton  composed  his  Anatomy  of  Mel 
ancholy.  I  see  you  reluctantly  raise  your  optics  from  the  huge- 
clasped  quarto  which  encumbers  your  lap,  to  receive  the  pack 
age  which  the  servant  hands  you,  and  can  almost  imagine  that 
I  see  those  beloved  features  illumined  for  a  moment  with  an 
expression  of  joy,  as  you  read  the  superscription  of  your 
gentle  protege.  Lay  down  I  beseech  you  that  odious  black- 
lettered  volume  and  let  not  its  musty  and  withered  leaves  sully 
the  virgin  purity  and  whiteness  of  the  sheet  which  is  the  vehicle 
of  so  much  good  sense,  sterling  thought,  and  chaste  and  ele 
gant  sentiment. 

You  remember  how  you  used  to  rate  me  for  my  hang-dog 
modesty,  my  mauvaise  honte,  as  my  Lord  Chesterfield  would 
style  it.  Well !  I  have  determined  that  hereafter  you  shall 
not  have  occasion  to  inflict  upon  me  those  flattering  appella 
tions  of  "Fool!"  "Dolt!"  "Sheep!"  which  in  your  indignation 
you  used  to  shower  upon  me,  with  a  vigour  and  a  facility 
which  excited  my  wonder,  while  it  provoked  my  resentment. 

And  how  do  you  imagine  that  I  rid  myself  of  this  annoying 
hindrance?  Why,  truly,  by  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  in 
this  pretty  corpus  of  mine  was  lodged  every  manly  grace; 


PEDAGOGY,  PUGILISM,  LETTERS     117 

that  my  limbs  were  modelled  in  the  symmetry  of  the  Phidian 
Jupiter;  my  countenance  radiant  with  the  beams  of  wit  and 
intelligence,  the  envy  of  the  beaux,  the  idol  of  the  women  and 
the  admiration  of  the  tailor.  And  then  my  mind !  why,  sir,  I 
have  discovered  it  to  be  endowed  with  the  most  rare  and  ex 
traordinary  powers,  stored  with  universal  knowledge,  and  em 
bellished  with  every  polite  accomplishment. 

Pollux!  what  a  comfortable  thing  is  a  good  opinion  of  one's 
self  when  I  walk  the  Broadway  of  our  village  with  a  certain 
air,  that  puts  me  down  at  once  in  the  estimation  of  any  intelli 
gent  stranger  who  may  chance  to  meet  me,  as  a  distingue  of 
the  purest  water,  a  blade  of  the  true  temper,  a  blood  of  the 
first  quality!  Lord!  how  I  despise  the  little  sneaking  vermin 
who  dodge  along  the  street  as  though  they  were  so  many  foot 
men  or  errand  boys ;  who  have  never  learned  to  carry  the  head 
erect  in  conscious  importance,  but  hang  that  noblest  of  the 
human  members  as  though  it  had  been  boxed  by  some  virago 
of  an  Amazon ;  who  shuffle  along  the  walk  with  a  quick  uneasy 
step,  a  hasty  clownish  motion,  which  by  the  magnitude  of  the 
contrast,  set  off  to  advantage  my  own  slow  and  magisterial 
gait,  which  I  can  at  pleasure  vary  to  an  easy,  abandoned  sort 
of  carriage,  or  to  the  more  engaging  alert  and  lively  walk,  to 
suit  the  varieties  of  time,  occasion,  and  company. 

And  in  society,  too — how  often  have  I  commiserated  the 
poor  wretches  who  stood  aloof,  in  a  corner,  like  a  flock  of 
scared  sheep;  while  myself,  beautiful  as  Apollo,  dressed  in  a 
style  which  would  extort  admiration  from  a  Brummel,  and 
belted  round  with  self-esteem  as  with  a  girdle,  sallied  up  to  the 
ladies — complimenting  one,  exchanging  a  repartee  with  an 
other;  tapping  this  one  under  the  chin,  and  clasping  this  one 
round  the  waist;  and  finally,  winding  up  the  operation  by  kiss 
ing  round  the  whole  circle  to  the  great  edification  of  the  fair, 
and  to  the  unbounded  horror,  amazement  and  ill-suppressed 
chagrin  of  the  aforesaid  sheepish  multitude;  who  with  eyes 
wide  open  and  mouths  distended,  afforded  good  subjects  on 
whom  to  exercise  my  polished  wit,  which  like  the  glittering 
edge  of  a  Damascus  sabre  "dazzled  all  it  shone  upon." 


118  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

By  my  halidome,  sir,  this  same  village  of  Lansingburgh 
contains  within  its  pretty  limits  as  fair  a  set  of  blushing  dam 
sels  as  one  would  wish  to  look  upon  on  a  dreamy  summer  day ! 
—When  I  traverse  the  broad  pavements  of  my  own  metropo 
lis,  my  eyes  are  arrested  by  beautiful  forms  flitting  hither  and 
thither;  and  I  pause  to  admire  the  elegance  of  their  attire,  the 
taste  displayed  in  their  embellishments;  the  rich  mass  of  the 
material;  and  sometimes,  it  may  be,  at  the  loveliness  of  the 
features,  which  no  art  can  heighten  and  no  negligence  conceal. 

But  here,  sir,  here — where  woman  seems  to  have  erected 
her  throne,  and  established  her  empire;  here,  where  all  feel 
and  acknowledge  her  sway,  she  blooms  in  unborrowed  charms ; 
and  the  eye  undazzled  by  the  profusion  of  extraneous  orna 
ment,  settles  at  once  upon  the  loveliest  faces  which  our  clayey 
natures  can  assume. 

Nor,  my  dear  M.,  does  there  reign  in  all  this  bright  display, 
that  same  monotony  of  feature,  form,  complexion,  which  else 
where  is  beheld;  no,  here  are  all  varieties,  all  the  orders  of 
Beauty's  architecture ;  the  Doric,  the  Ionic,  the  Corinthian,  all 
are  here. 

I  have  in  "my  mind's  eye,  Horatio,"  three  (the  number  of 
the  Graces,  you  remember)  who  may  stand,  each  at  the  head 
of  their  respective  orders. 

When  I  venture  to  describe  the  second  of  this  beautiful 
trinity,  I  feel  my  powers  of  delineation  inadequate  to  the  task; 
but  nevertheless  I  will  try  my  hand  at  the  matter,  although 
like  an  unskilful  limner,  I  am  fearful  I  shall  but  scandalise 
the  charms  I  endeavour  to  copy. 

Come  to  my  aid,  ye  guardian  spirits  of  the  Fair !  Guide  my 
awkward  hand,  and  preserve  from  mutilation  the  features  ye 
hover  over  and  protect !  Pour  down  whole  floods  of  sparkling 

champagne,  my  dear  M ,  until  your  brain  grows  giddy 

with  emotion;  con  over  the  latter  portion  of  the  first  Canto  of 
Childe  Harold,  and  ransack  your  intellectual  repository  for 
the  loveliest  visions  of  the  Fairy  Land,  and  you  will  be  in  a 
measure  prepared  to  relish  the  epicurean  banquet  I  shall  spread. 


PEDAGOGY,  PUGILISM,  LETTERS     119 

The  stature  of  this  beautiful  mortal  (if  she  be  indeed  of 
earth)  is  of  that  perfect  height  which,  while  it  is  freed  from 
the  charge  of  being  low,  cannot  with  propriety  be  denominated 
tall.  Her  figure  is  slender  almost  to  fragility  but  strikingly 
modelled  in  spiritual  elegance,  and  is  the  only  form  I  ever  saw 
which  could  bear  the  trial  of  a  rigid  criticism. 

Every  man  who  is  gifted  with  the  least  particle  of  imagina 
tion,  must  in  some  of  his  reveries  have  conjured  up  from  the 
realms  of  fancy,  a  being  bright  and  beautiful  beyond  every 
thing  he  had  ever  before  apprehended,  whose  main  and  dis 
tinguishing  attribute  invariably  proves  to  be  a  form  the  in 
describable  loveliness  of  which  seems  to 

" — Sail  in  liquid  light, 
And  float  on  seas  of  bliss." 

The  realisation  of  these  seraphic  visions  is  seldom  permitted 
us;  but  I  can  truly  say  that  when  my  eyes  for  the  first  time 
fell  upon  this  lovely  creature,  I  thought  myself  transported 
to  the  land  of  Dreams,  where  lay  embodied,  the  most  brilliant 
conceptions  of  the  wildest  fancy.  Indeed,  could  the  Prome 
thean  spark  throw  life  and  animation  into  the  Venus  de  Me 
dici,  it  would  but  present  the  counterpart  of  -  — . 

Her  complexion  has  the  delicate  tinge  of  the  Brunett,  with 
a  little  of  the  roseate  hue  of  the  Circassian;  and  one  would 
swear  that  none  but  the  sunny  skies  of  Spain  had  shone  upon 
the  infancy  of  the  being,  who  looks  so  like  her  own  "dark- 
glancing  daughters." 

And  then  her  eyes !  they  open  their  dark,  rich  orbs  upon  you 
like  the  full  moon  of  heaven,  and  blaze  into  your  very  soul 
the  fires  of  day!  Like  the  offerings  laid  upon  the  sacrificial 
altars  of  the  Hebrew,  when  in  an  instant  the  divine  spark 
falling  from  the  propitiated  God  kindled  them  in  flames;  so, 
a  single  glance  from  that  Oriental  eye  as  quickly  fires  your 
soul,  and  leaves  your  bosom  in  a  perfect  conflagration !  Odds 
Cupids  and  Darts !  with  one  broad  sweep  of  vision  in  a  crowded 
ball-room,  that  splendid  creature  would  lay  around  her  like 


120  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

the  two-handed  sword  of  Minotti,  hearts  on  hearts,  piled 
round  in  semi-circles !  But  it  is  well  for  the  more  rugged  sex 
that  this  glorious  being  can  vary  her  proud  dominion,  and  give 
to  the  expression  of  her  eye  a  melting  tenderness  which  dis 
solves  the  most  frigid  heart  and  heals  the  wounds  she  gave 
before. 

If  the  devout  and  exemplary  Mussulman  who  dying  fast  in 
the  faith  of  his  Prophet  anticipates  reclining  on  beds  of  roses, 
gloriously  drunk  through  all  the  ages  of  eternity,  is  to  be  waited 
on  by  Houris  such  as  these :  waft  me  ye  gentle  gales  beyond 
this  lower  world  and 

"Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs !" 

But  I  am  falling  into  I  know  not  what  extravagances,  so  I 
will  briefly  give  you  a  portrait  of  the  last  of  these  three  divini 
ties,  and  will  then  terminate  my  tiresome  lucubrations. 

Here,  my  dear  M ,  closes  this  catalogue  of  the  Graces, 

this  chapter  of  Beauties,  and  I  should  implore  your  pardon 
for  trespassing  so  long  on  your  attention.  If  you,  yourself,  in 
whose  breast  may  possibly  be  extinguished  the  amatory  flame, 
should  not  feel  an  interest  in  these  three  "counterfeit  present 
ments,"  do  not  fail  to  show  them  to  -  and  solicit  her 

opinion  as  to  their  respective  merits. 

Tender  my  best  acknowledgments   to  the  Major   for  his 
prompt  attention  to  my  request,  and,  for  yourself,  accept  the 
assurance  of  my  undiminished  regard;  and  hoping  that  the 
smiles  of  heaven  may  continue  to  illuminate  your  way, 
I  remain,  ever  yours, 

L.  A.  V. 

These  "chaste  and  elegant  sentiments"  are,  surely,  "embel 
lished  with  every  polite  accomplishment."  Melville  called 
down  the  Nine  Gods,  and  a  host  of  minor  deities;  he  ran 
sacked  Athens,  Rhodes,  Cyprus,  Circassia,  Lydia,  Lilliputia, 
Damascus,  this  world  and  the  next,  for  geographical  adorn 
ments;  he  called  up  Burton,  Shakespeare,  Scott,  Byron,  Mil- 


PEDAGOGY,  PUGILISM,  LETTERS     121 

ton,  Coleridge  and  Chesterfield,  as  well  as  Prometheus  and 
Cinderella,  Mahomet  and  Cleopatra,  Madonnas  and  Houris, 
Medici  and  Mussulman,  to  strew  carelessly  across  his  pages. 
"Not  in  vain,"  says  Melville  of  the  idealisation  of  himself  in 
the  character  of  Pierre,  "had  he  spent  long  summer  after 
noons  in  the  deep  recesses  of  his  father's  fastidiously  picked 
and  decorous  library."  Not  in  vain,  either,  had  he  been  sub 
mitted  to  three  years  of  elementary  drill  in  the  classics  at  the 
Albany  Academy.  "Not  that  as  yet  his  young  and  immature 
soul  had  been  accosted  by  the  wonderful  Mutes,  and  through 
the  vast  halls  of  Silent  Truth,  had  been  ushered  into  the  full, 
secret,  eternally  inviolable  Sanhedrim,  where  the  Poetic  Magi 
discuss,  in  glorious  gibberish,  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  the 
Universe,"  says  Melville;  "but  among  the  beautiful  imagin 
ings  of  the  second  and  third  degree  of  poets  he  freely  and  com- 
prehendingly  ranged."  Melville  was  always  a  wide  if  desul 
tory  reader,  more  and  more  interested  after  the  manner  of  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  and  the  Burton  with  reference  to  whom  he 
began  his  career  in  letters,  in  "remote  and  curious  illusions, 
wrecks  of  forgotten  fables,  antediluvian  computations,  obsolete 
and  unfamiliar  problems,  riddles  that  no  living  (Edipus  would 
care  to  solve."  And  this  preoccupation — first  made  manifest 
in  Mardi  (1849) — must  always  stand  in  the  way  of  his  most 
typical  writings  ever  becoming  widely  popular.  His  earliest 
known  piece  of  juvenile  composition  is  interesting  as  reveal 
ing  the  crude  beginnings  of  one  of  the  manners  superbly  mas 
tered  in  parts  of  Moby-Dick.  This  early  effusion,  by  reveal 
ing  so  crudely  the  defects  of  his  qualities,  reads  as  a  dull  parody 
of  one  of  his  most  typical  later  manners. 

With  a  Miltonic  confidence  in  his  own  gifts,  Melville  came 
to  view  these  earlier  pieces  as  the  first  "earthly  rubbish"  of 
his  "immense  quarries  of  fine  marble."  Melville  goes  on  to 
say  that  "no  commonplace  is  ever  effectually  got  rid  of,  except 
by  essentially  emptying  one's  self  of  it  into  a  book;  for  once 
trapped  into  a  book,  then  the  book  can  be  put  into  the  fire  and 
all  will  be  well."  "But  they  are  not  always  put  into  the  fire," 
he  said  with  regret.  And  because  of  his  own  laxity  in  crema 
tion,  his  crude  first  fruits  stalk  abroad  to  accuse  him. 


122  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

At  this  early  period,  Melville  had  nothing  very  significant 
to  say ;  but  he  seems  to  have  been  urged  to  say  it  with  remorse 
less  pertinacity.  In  Pierre,  he  satirises  his  youthful  and  reck 
less  prolixity  where  he  speaks  of  his  manuscripts  as  being  of 
such  flying  multitudes  that  "they  were  to  be  found  lying  all 
round  the  house;  gave  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  the  house 
maids  in  sweeping;  went  for  kindlings  to  the  fires;  and  for 
ever  flitting  out  of  the  windows,  and  under  the  door  sills,  into 
the  faces  of  people  passing  the  manorial  mansion." 

Having  nothing  very  particular  to  write  about,  he  followed 
an  ancient  tradition,  and  wrote  of  love.  In  Pierre,  which  is 
Melville's  spiritual  autobiography,  and  in  Pierre  alone,  does 
Melville  elaborately  busy  himself  with  romantic  affection. 
And  in  Pierre,  his  is  no  sugared  and  conventional  preoccupa 
tion.  He  traces  his  own  development  through  the  love-friend 
ship  of  boyhood,  the  miscellaneous  susceptibility  of  adolescence, 
to  a  crucifixion  in  manhood  between  the  images  of  his  wife 
and  his  mother.  His  first  Fragment  from  a  Writing  Desk 
seems  to  have  been  conceived  at  a  time  before  his  "innumer 
able  wandering  glances  settled  upon  some  one  specific  ob 
ject." 

His  second  Fragment  from  a  Writing  Desk  concerns  itself 
with  an  allegorical  quest  of  elusive  feminine  loveliness :  a  kind 
of  Coelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife,  allegorised  and  crossed  with 
Lalla  Rookh.  It  survives,  as  has  been  said,  only  as  a  frag 
ment  of  a  Fragment.  Its  conclusion  must  remain  a  mystery 
until  some  old  newspaper  file  disgorges  its  secrets.  It  begins 
as  follows: 

For  the  Democratic  Press 

FRAGMENTS  FROM  A  WRITING  DESK 

No.  2 

"Confusion  seize  the  Greek!"  exclaimed  I,  as  wrathfully  ris 
ing  from  my  chair,  I  flung  my  ancient  Lexicon  across  the  room 
and  seizing  my  hat  and  cane,  and  throwing  on  my  cloak,  I 
sallied  out  into  the  clearer  air  of  heaven.  The  bracing  cool 
ness  of  an  April  evening  calmed  my  aching  temples,  and  I 
slowly  wended  my  way  to  the  river  side.  I  had  promenaded 


PEDAGOGY,  PUGILISM,  LETTERS     123 

the  bank  for  about  half  an  hour,  when  flinging  myself  upon 
the  grassy  turf,  I  was  soon  lost  in  revery,  and  up  to  the  lips 
in  sentiment. 

I  had  not  lain  more  than  five  minutes,  when  a  figure  effec 
tually  concealed  in  the  ample  folds  of  a  cloak,  glided  past  me, 
and  hastily  dropping  something  at  my  feet,  disappeared  behind 
the  angle  of  an  adjoining  house,  ere  I  could  recover  from  my 
astonishment  at  so  singular  an  occurrence. 

"Cerbes !"  cried  I,  springing  up,  "here  is  a  spice  of  the  mar 
vellous  !"  and  stooping  down,  I  picked  up  an  elegant  little,  rose- 
coloured,  lavender-scented  billet-doux,  and  hurriedly  break 
ing  the  seal  (a  heart,  transfixed  with  an  arrow)  I  read  by  the 
light  of  the  moon,  the  following: — 

"GENTLE  SIR: 

If  my  fancy  has  painted  you  in  genuine  colours,  you  will  on 
the  receipt  of  this,  incontinently  follow  the  bearer  where  she 
will  lead  you. 

INAMORITA." 

"The  deuce  I  will!"  exclaimed  I,— "But  soft!"— And  I  re- 
perused  this  singular  document,  turned  over  the  billet  in  my 
fingers,  and  examined  the  hand-writing,  which  was  femininely 
delicate,  and  I  could  have  sworn  was  a  woman's.  Is  it  pos 
sible,  thought  I,  that  the  days  of  romance  are  revived? — No, 
"The  days  of  chivalry  are  over!"  says  Burke. 

As  I  made  this  reflection,  I  looked  up,  and  beheld  the  same 
figure  which  had  handed  me  this  questionable  missive,  beck 
oning  me  forward.  I  started  towards  her;  but,  as  I  ap 
proached,  she  receded  from  me,  and  fled  swiftly  along  the 
margin  of  the  river  at  a  pace  which,  encumbered  as  I  was  with 
my  heavy  cloak  and  boots,  I  was  unable  to  follow ;  and  which 
filled  me  with  sundry  misgivings,  as  to  the  nature  of  the  be 
ing,  who  could  travel  with  such  amazing  celerity.  At  last, 
perfectly  breathless,  I  fell  into  a  walk;  which,  my  mysterious 
fugitive  perceiving,  she  likewise  lessened  her  pace,  so  as  to 
keep  herself  still  in  sight,  although  at  too  great  a  distance  to 
permit  me  to  address  her." 


124  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

The  hero  hastens  after  his  guide — but  always  she  eludes 
him.  Piqued  by  her  repeated  escapes,  he  stops  in  a  rage,  and 
relieves  his  feelings  in  "two  or  three  expressions  that  savoured 
somewhat  of  the  jolly  days  of  the  jolly  cavaliers."  And  un 
der  the  circumstances,  he  felt  fully  justified  in  his  profanity. 
"What!  to  be  thwarted  by  a  woman!  Peradventure ;  baffled 
by  a  girl  ?  Confusion !  It  was  too  bad !  To  be  outwitted, 
generaled,  routed,  defeated,  by  a  mere  rib  of  the  earth?  It 
could  not  be  borne!"  Recovering  his  temper,  he  followed  his 
capricious  guide  out  of  the  towrn,  into  a  shadowy  grove  to  "an 
edifice,  which  seated  on  a  gentle  eminence,  and  embowered 
amidst  surrounding  trees,  bore  the  appearance  of  a  country 
villa." 

"The  appearance  of  this  spacious  habitation  was  anything 
but  inviting;  it  seemed  to  have  been  built  with  a  jealous  eye 
to  concealment;  and  its  few,  but  well-defended  windows  were 
sufficiently  high  from  the  ground,  as  effectually  to  baffle  the 
prying  curiosity  of  the  inquisitive  stranger.  Not  a  single  light 
shone  from  the  narrow  casement;  but  all  was  harsh,  gloomy 
and  forbidding.  As  my  imagination,  ever  alert  on  such  an  oc 
casion,  was  busily  occupied  in  assigning  some  fearful  motive 
for  such  unusual  precautions,  my  leader  suddenly  halted  be 
neath  a  lofty  window,  and  making  a  low  call,  I  perceived  slowly 
descending  therefrom,  a  thick  silken  cord,  attached  to  an 
ample  basket,  which  was  silently  deposited  at  our  feet. 
Amazed  at  this  apparition,  I  was  about  soliciting  an  explana 
tion  :  when  laying  her  fingers  impressively  upon  her  lips,  and 
placing  herself  in  the  basket,  my  guide  motioned  me  to  seat 
myself  beside  her.  I  obeyed;  but  not  without  considerable 
trepidation:  and  in  obedience  to  the  same  low  call  which  had 
procured  its  descent,  our  curious  vehicle,  with  sundry  creak- 
ings,  rose  in  air." 

This  airy  jaunt  terminated,  of  course,  in  an  Arabian  Nights 
exterior,  which  Melville  particularises  after  the  "voluptuous" 
traditions  of  Vathek  and  Lalla  Rookh.  "The  grandeur  of  the 
room,"  of  course,  "served  only  to  show  to  advantage  the 
matchless  beauty  of  its  inmate."  This  matchless  beauty  was, 
after  established  tradition,  "reclining  on  an  ottoman;  in  one 


PEDAGOGY,  PUGILISM,  LETTERS     125 

hand  holding  a  lute."  Her  fingers,  too,  "were  decorated  with 
a  variety  of  rings,  which  as  she  waved  her  hand  to  me  as  I 
entered,  darted  forth  a  thousand  coruscations,  and  gleamed 
their  brilliant  splendours  to  the  sight." 

"As  I  entered  the  apartment,  her  eyes  were  downcast,  and 
the  expression  of  her  face  was  mournfully  interesting;  she  had 
apparently  been  lost  in  some  melancholy  revery.  Upon  my  en 
trance,  however,  her  countenance  brightened,  as  with  a  queenly 
wave  of  the  hand,  she  motioned  my  conductress  from  the  room, 
and  left  me  standing,  mute,  admiring  and  bewildered  in  her 
presence." 

"For  a  moment  my  brain  spun  round,  and  I  had  not  at 
command  a  single  of  my  faculties.  Recovering  my  self-pos 
session,  however,  and  with  that,  my  good-breeding,  I  advanced 
en  cavalier  and,  gracefully  sinking  on  one  knee,  I  bowed  my 
head  and  exclaimed — 'Here  do  I  prostrate  myself,  thou  sweet 
Divinity,  and  kneel  at  the  shrine  of  thy— 

But  here,  just  at  the  climax  of  the  quest,  the  clipping  is  ab 
ruptly  torn,  and  the  reader  is  left  cruelly  suspended. 

From  the  publication  of  Lalla  Rookh,  in  1817,  to  the  pub 
lication  of  Thackeray's  Our  Street  in  1847,  there  settled  upon 
letters  and  life  in  England  an  epidemic  of  hankering  for  the 
exotic.  At  the  instigation  of  Lalla  Rookh,  England  made  a 
prim  effort  to  be  "purely  and  intensely  Asiatic,"  and  this  while 
delicately  avoiding  "the  childishness,  cruelty,  and  profligacy  of 
Asia."  In  the  fashionable  literature  of  the  period,  the  harem 
and  the  slave-market  unburdened  its  gazelles  and  its  interior 
decorations,  and  by  a  resort  to  divans  and  coruscating  rubies, 
and  ottar  of  roses,  and  lutes,  and  warm  panting  maidens,  the 
"principled  goodness"  of  Anglo-Saxon  self-righteousness  was 
thrilled  to  a  discreet  voluptuousness. 

In  his  second  Fragment,  Melville  has  caught  at  some  of  the 
drift-wood  of  this  great  tidal  wave  that  was  washed  across  the 
Atlantic.  And  in  acknowledgment  of  this  early  indebted 
ness,  he  in  Pierre  speaks  of  Tom  Moore  with  an  especial  burst 
of  enthusiasm,  mating  him  with  Hafiz,  Anacreon,  Catullus 
and  Ovid. 

Reared  in  a  New  England  environment  that  had  been  so- 


126  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

berly  tempered  by  Mrs.  Chapone  and  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Mel 
ville  had,  under  the  goadings  of  poverty,  the  frustrations  of 
his  environment,  and  the  teasing  lure  of  some  stupendous  dis 
covery  awaiting  him  at  the  rainbow's  end,  plunged  into  the 
hideousness  of  life  in  the  forecastle  of  a  merchantman.  At 
both  extremes  of  his  journey  he  reaped  only  disillusion.  As 
a  practically  penniless  sailor  in  Liverpool  he  enjoyed  the 
freedom  of  the  streets :  and  the  architecture  of  the  city  im 
pressed  him  less  than  did  the  sights  of  the  poverty  and  vicious- 
ness  to  which  he  was  especially  exposed.  Back  he  came  to 
Lansingburg,  to  the  old  pump  in  the  yard,  the  stiff-corseted 
decorum,  and  the  threadbare  and  pretentious  proprieties  of 
his  mother,  to  decline  into  the  enforced  drudgery  of  teach 
ing  school.  The  sights  of  Liverpool  and  the  forecastle  had 
given  no  permanent  added  beauty  to  home.  He  did  not 
comfortably  fit  into  any  recognised  socket  of  New  England 
respectability.  He  sought  escape  in  books,  in  amateur  author 
ship.  And  Burton,  and  Anacreon,  and  Tom  Moore  are 
not  guaranteed  to  reconcile  a  boy  in  ferment  to  a  tame  and 
repugnant  environment.  He  was  like  a  strong  wine  that  clears 
with  explosive  violence.  He  had  been  to  sea  once,  and  there 
acquired  some  skill  as  a  sailor.  The  excitement  and  hardship 
and  downrightness  of  ocean  life,  when  viewed  through  the 
drab  of  the  ensuing  years,  treacherously  suffered  a  sea-change. 
After  three  and  a  half  years  of  mounting  desperation,  he  was 
ripe  for  a  transit  clean  beyond  the  pale  of  civilisation. 

"I  am  tormented  with  an  everlasting  itch  for  things  remote," 
he  later  wrote  in  an  effort  to  explain  his  second  hegira ;  "I  love 
to  sail  forbidden  seas,  and  land  on  barbarous  coasts/'  The 
trip  to  Liverpool  had  slammed  the  sash  on  one  magic  case 
ment;  but  the  greater  part  of  the  watery  world  was  still  to  be 
viewed.  "Why,"  he  asks  himself  perplexed  at  his  own  mys 
tery,  "is  almost  every  healthy  boy  with  a  robust  healthy  soul, 
at  some  time  or  other  crazy  to  go  to  sea?  Why  did  the  old 
Persians  hold  the  sea  holy?  Why  did  the  Greeks  give  it  a 
separate  deity,  and  own  brother  to  Jove?  Surely  all  this  is 
not  without  meaning.  And  still  deeper  the  story  of  Narcissus, 
who  because  he  could  not  grasp  the  tormenting,  mild  image  he 


PEDAGOGY,  PUGILISM,  LETTERS     127 

saw  in  the  fountain,  plunged  into  it  and  was  drowned.  But 
that  same  image,  we  ourselves  see  in  all  rivers  and  oceans.  It 
is  the  image  of  the  ungraspable  phantom  of  life;  and  this  is 
the  key  to  all."  The  key  he  here  offers  to  the  heart  of  his 
mystery  is  itself  locked  in  mystery;  though  when  he  compared 
himself  to  Narcissus  tormented  by  the  irony  of  being  two, 
Melville  may  have  been  hotter  on  the  trail  of  the  truth  than 
he  was  aware.  His  deepest  insight,  perhaps,  came  to  him  one 
midnight,  out  on  the  Pacific,  where  in  the  glare  and  the  wild 
Hindoo  odour  of  the  tryworks  of  a  whaler  in  full  operation, 
he  fell  asleep  at  the  helm.  "Starting  from  a  brief  standing 
sleep,"  he  says,  "I  was  horribly  conscious  of  something  fatally 
wrong.  I  thought  my  eyes  were  open;  I  was  half  conscious 
of  putting  my  fingers  to  the  lids  and  mechanically  stretching 
them  still  further  apart.  But,  spite  of  all  this,  I  could  see 
no  compass  before  me  to  steer  by.  Nothing  seemed  before  me 
but  a  jet  of  gloom,  now  and  then  made  ghastly  by  flashes  of 
redness.  Uppermost  was  the  impression,  that  whatever  swift, 
rushing  thing  I  stood  on  was  not  so  much  bound  to  any  haven 
ahead  as  rushing  from  all  havens  astern." 

In  a  headlong  retreat  from  all  havens  astern,  on  January  3, 
1841,  Melville  shipped  on  board  the  Acushnet,  a  whaler  bound 
for  the  South  Seas. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM 

"And,  as  for  me,  if,  by  any  possibility,  there  be  any  as  yet  undiscovered 
prime  thing  in  me;  if  I  shall  ever  deserve  any  real  repute  in  that  small 
but  high  hushed  world  which  I  might  not  be  unreasonably  ambitious  of ; 
if  hereafter  I  shall  do  anything  that,  upon  the  whole,  a  man  might  rather 
have  done  than  to  have  left  undone ;  if,  at  my  death,  my  executors,  or 
more  properly  my  creditors,  find  any  precious  MSS.  in  my  desk,  then 
here  I  prospectively  ascribe  all  the  honour  and  the  glory  to  whaling;  for 
a  whale-ship  was  my  Yale  College  and  my  Harvard." 

— HERMAN   MELVILLE  :   Moby-Dick. 

IN  1892,  the  year  after  Melville's  death,  Arthur  Stedman 
wrote  a  "Biographical  and  Critical  Introduction"  to  Typee. 
During  the  final  years  of  Melville's  sedulous  isolation,  Arthur 
Stedman  was — with  the  minor  exception  of  the  late  Dr.  Titus 
Munson  Coan,  whose  Missionary  parentage  Melville  seems 
never  to  have  quite  forgiven  him — the  single  man  who  clung 
to  Melville  with  any  semblance  of  personal  loyalty.  Stedman 
was  unwavering  in  his  belief  that  in  his  earlier  South  Sea 
novels,  Melville  had  attained  to  his  highest  achievement :  an 
achievement  that  entitled  Melville  to  more  golden  opinions, 
Stedman  believed,  than  Melville  ever  reaped  from  a  graceless 
generation.  To  Stedman — as  to  Dr.  Coan — Melville's  later  de 
velopment  into  mysticism  and  metaphysics  was  a  melancholy 
perversity  to  be  viewed  with  a  charitable  forbearance,  and  for 
given  in  the  fair  name  of  Fayaway.  Dr.  Coan  repeatedly 
used  to  recount,  with  a  sigh  at  his  frustration,  how  he  made 
persistent  attempts  to  inveigle  Melville  into  Polynesian  remin 
iscences,  always  to  be  rebuffed  by  Melville's  invariable  rejoin 
der:  'That  reminds  me  of  the  eighth  book  of  Plato's  Repub 
lic."  This  was  a  signal  for  silence  and  leave-taking.  What 
was  the  staple  of  Stedman's  conversation  is  not  known.  But 
despite  the  fact  that  Melville  was  to  him  a  crabbed  and  darkly 
shadowed  hieroglyph,  he  clung  to  Melville  with  a  personal 
loyalty  at  once  humorous  and  pathetic.  Melville  to  him  was 

128 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM  129 

the  "man  who  lived  with  the  cannibals,"  and  merited  canon 
isation  because  of  this  intimacy  with  unholy  flesh.  Stedman 
published  in  the  New  York  World  for  October  n,  1891,  a  trib 
ute  to  his  dead  friend,  significantly  headed  :  "Marquesan"  Mel 
ville.  A  South  Sea  Prospero  who  Lived  and  Died  in  New 
York.  The  Island  Nymphs  of  Nukuhcva's  Happy  Valley. 
While  Stedman  was  not  necessarily  responsible  for  this  cap 
tion,  it  is,  nevertheless,  a  just  summary  of  the  fullest  insight 
he  ever  got  into  Melville's  life  and  works.  The  friendship  be 
tween  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  is  hardly  less  humorous  than 
the  relationship  between  Melville  and  Stedman;  and  surely 
Melville  has  suffered  more,  in  death,  if  not  in  life,  from  the 
perils  of  friendship  than  did  Petrarch :  more  even  than  did 
Baudelaire  from  the  damaging  admiration  of  Gautier.  When 
one's  enemy  writes  a  book,  one's  reputation  is  less  likely  to  be 
jeopardised  by  literary  animosity  than  it  is  by  the  best  super 
latives  of  self-appointed  custodians  of  one's  good  name.  But 
as  Francis  Thompson  has  observed,  it  is  a  principle  universally 
conceded  that,  since  the  work  of  a  great  author  is  said  to  be  a 
monument,  the  true  critic  does  best  evince  his  taste  and  sense 
by  cutting  his  own  name  on  it.  Critical  biographers  have  con 
trived  a  method  to  hand  themselves  down  to  posterity  through 
the  gods  of  literature,  as  did  the  Roman  emperors  through  the 
gods  of  Olympus — by  taking  the  heads  off  their  statues,  and 
clapping  on  their  own  instead.  Criticism  is  a  perennial 
decapitation. 

"I  have  a  fancy,"  says  Stedman,  in  his  Biographical  and 
Critical  Introduction,  "that  it  was  the  reading  of  Richard 
Henry  Dana's  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast  which  revived  the 
spirit  of  adventure  in  Melville's  breast.  That  book  was  pub 
lished  in  1840,  and  was  at  once  talked  of  everywhere.  Mel 
ville  must  have  read  it  at  the  time,  mindful  of  his  own  expe 
rience  as  a  sailor.  At  any  rate,  he  once  more  signed  a  ship's 
articles,  and  on  January  i,  1841,  sailed  from  New  Bedford 
harbour  in  the  whaler  Acushnet,  bound  for  the  Pacific  Ocean 
and  the  sperm  fishery." 

In  the  second  part  of  this  statement,  Stedman  attempts  to 
stick  to  the  letter:  but  there  is  a  flaw  in  his  text.  That  Mel- 


130  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ville  sailed  in  the  Acushnct  is  corroborated  by  a  statement  in 
the  journal  of  Melville's  wife;  in  the  record  surviving  in  Mel 
ville's  handwriting,  headed  "what  became  of  the  ship's  com 
pany  on  the  whaleship  Acushnet,  according  to  Hubbard,  who 
came  back  in  her  (more  than  a  four  years'  voyage)  and  vis 
ited  me  in  Pittsfield  in  1850;"  as  well  as  by  surviving  letters 
written  by  Richard  Tobias  Greene,  the  Toby  of  Typee. 

The  roster  of  Melville's  ship  is  preserved  in  Alexander 
Starbuck's  bulky  History  of  the  American  Whale  Fishery  from 
its  Earliest  Inception  to  the  Year  1876  (published  by  the 
author,  Waltham,  Mass.,  1878).  Starbuck  rates  the  Acush- 
net  as  a  ship  of  359  tons,  built  in  1840.  Her  managing  owners 
are  reported  as  having  been  Bradford  Fuller  &  Co.  Under 
command  of  Captain  Pease  she  sailed  from  Fairhaven,  bound 
for  the  whaling  grounds  of  the  Pacific,  on  January  3,  1841, 
and  returned  to  Fairhaven  on  May  13,  1845,  laden  with  850 
barrels  of  sperm  oil,  1350  barrels  of  whale  oil,  and  13500 
pounds  of  whale-bone.  On  July  18,  1845,  sne  started  upon 
her  second  voyage,  under  command  of  Captain  Rogers,  to 
return  June  7,  1848,  stocked  with  500  barrels  of  sperm  oil, 
800  barrels  of  whale  oil,  and  6000  pounds  of  whale-bone.  On 
December  4,  1847,  she  had  a  boat  stove  by  a  whale,  with  the 
loss  of  the  third  mate  and  four  of  the  crew.  Her  third  voyage, 
begun  August  31,  1848,  under  command  of  Captain  Bradley, 
was  her  last.  As  by  some  malicious  fatality,  the  Acushnct 
was  lost  on  St.  Lawrence  Island  on  August  31,  1851,  within 
a  month  of  the  time  when  Melville  brought  Moby-Dick  to  its 
tragic  close. 

Between  Stedman's  and  Starbuck's  accounts  of  the  time  and 
place  of  Melville's  sailing  there  is  a  discrepancy  of  half  a  mile 
and  two  days.  This  discrepancy,  however,  does  not  neces 
sarily  impugn  Stedman's  accuracy.  Fairhaven  is  just  across 
the  Acushnet  river  from  New  Bedford,  and  "sailing  from 
New  Bedford"  may  be  like  "sailing  from  New  York" — which 
is  often  in  reality  "sailing  from  Hoboken." 

Stedman  dates  Melville's  sailing  January  i ;  Starbuck,  Jan 
uary  3.  Melville  launches  the  hero  of  Moby-Dick  neither 
from  New  Bedford  nor  from  Fairhaven,  but  from  Nantucket. 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM          131 

Ishmael  begins  his  fatal  voyage  aboard  the  Pequod  on  De 
cember  25 ;  and  there  is  a  fitting  irony  in  the  fact  that  on  the 
day  that  celebrates  the  birth  of  the  Saviour  of  mankind,  the 
Pequod  should  sail  forth  to  slay  Moby-Dick,  the  monstrous 
symbol  and  embodiment  of  unconquerable  evil. 

That  Dana's  book  should  have  fired  Melville  to  an  impetuous 
and  romantic  jaunt  to  the  South  Seas,  though  an  ill-favoured 
statement,  is  Stedman's  very  own.  When  a  boy  concludes  the 
Christmas  holidays  by  a  mid-winter  plunge  into  the  filthy  and 
shabby  business  of  whaling;  when  a  young  man  inaugurates 
the  year  not  among  the  familiar  associations  of  the  gods  of 
his  hearth,  but  among  semi-barbarous  strangers  of  the  fore 
castle  of  a  whaler:  to  make  such  a  shifting  of  whereabouts  a 
sign  of  jolly  romantic  exuberance,  is  engagingly  naive  in  its 
perversity. 

Just  what  specific  circumstances  were  the  occasion  of  Mel 
ville's  escape  into  whaling  will  probably  never  be  known :  what 
burst  of  demoniac  impulse,  either  of  anger,  or  envy,  or  spite; 
what  gnawing  discontent;  what  passionate  disappointment; 
what  crucifixion  of  affection;  what  blind  impetuosity;  what 
sinister  design.  But  in  the  light  of  his  writings  and  the 
known  facts  of  his  life  it  seems  likely  that  his  desperate  transit 
was  made  in  the  mid-winter  of  his  discontent.  That  the  read 
ing  of  Dana's  book  should  have  filled  his  head  with  a  mere 
adolescent  longing  for  brine-drenched  locomotion  and  sent  him 
gallantly  off  to  sea  is  a  surmise  more  remarkable  for  simplic 
ity  than  insight. 

Melville  never  wearies  of  iterating  his  "itch  for  things  re 
mote."  Like  Thoreau,  he  had  a  "naturally  roving  disposi 
tion,"  and  of  the  two  men  it  is  difficult  to  determine  which 
achieved  a  wider  peregrination.  It  was  Thoreau's  proud  boast : 
"I  have  travelled  extensively  in  Concord."  He  believed  that 
Concord,  with  its  sylvan  environment,  was  a  microcosm  "by 
the  study  of  which  the  whole  world  could  be  comprehended," 
and  so,  this  wildest  of  civilised  men  seldom  strayed  beyond  its 
familiar  precincts.  His  was  a  heroic  provincialism,  that  cost 
him  little  loss  either  in  worldliness  or  in  wisdom.  Though  his 
head  went  swimming  in  the  Milky  Way,  his  feet  were  well- 


132  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

rooted  in  New  England  sod.  "One  world  at  a  time"  was  the 
programme  he  set  himself  for  digesting  the  universe:  and  he 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  this  world  with  cold  stoical  serenity. 
Melville  made  no  such  capitulation  with  reality.  Between 
the  obdurate  world  of  facts  and  his  ardent  and  unclarified  de 
sires  there  was  always,  to  the  end  of  his  life,  a  blatant  incom 
patibility.  Alongside  the  hard  and  cramping  world  of  reality, 
and  in  more  or  less  sharp  opposition  to  it,  he  set  up  a  fictitious 
world,  a  world  of  heart's  desire;  and  unlike  Thoreau,  he 
hugged  his  dream  in  jealous  defiance  of  reality.  It  is,  of 
course,  an  ineradicable  longing  of  man  to  repudiate  the  inex 
orable  restrictions  of  reality,  and  return  to  the  happy  delusion 
of  omnipotence  of  early  childhood,  an  escape  into  some  land 
of  heart's  desire.  Goethe  compared  the  illusions  that  man 
nourishes  in  his  breast  to  the  population  of  statues  in  ancient 
Rome  which  were  almost  as  numerous  as  the  population  of 
living  men.  Most  men  keep  the  boundaries  between  these  two 
populations  distinct :  a  separation  facilitated  by  the  usual 
dwindling  of  the  ghostly  population.  Flaubert  once  observed 
that  every  tenth-rate  provincial  notary  had  in  him  the  debris 
of  a  poet.  As  Wordsworth  complains,  as  we  grow  away  from 
childhood,  the  vision  fades  into  the  light  of  common  day. 
Thoreau  clung  to  his  visions;  but  they  were,  after  all,  cold 
blooded  and  well-behaved  visions.  And  by  restricting  him 
self  to  "one  world  at  a  time/'  by  mastering  his  dream,  he 
mastered  reality.  Alcott  declared  that  Thoreau  thought  he 
dwelt  in  the  centre  of  the  universe,  and  seriously  contemplated 
annexing  the  rest  of  the  planet  to  Concord.  The  delicacy  of 
the  compliment  to  the  rest  of  the  planet  has  never  been  ade 
quately  appreciated.  Melville's  more  violent  and  restive  im 
pulses  never  permitted  him  to  feel  any  such  flattering  attach 
ment  to  his  whereabouts,  whether  it  was  Albany,  Liverpool, 
Lima,  Tahiti  or  Constantinople.  Like  Rousseau,  who  con 
fessed  himself  "burning  with  desire  without  any  definite  ob 
ject,"  Melville  always  felt  himself  an  exile  from  the  seacoast 
of  Bohemia.  But  his  nostalgia,  his  indefinite  longing  for  the 
unknown,  was  not,  in  any  literal  sense,  "homesickness"  at  all. 
'As  Aldous  Huxley  has  observed : 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM          133 

"Those  find,  who  most  delight  to  roam 
'Mid  castles  of  remotest  Spain 
That  there's,  thank  Heaven,  no  place  like  home 
So  they  put  out  upon  their  travels  again." 

That  Melville  came  to  no  very  pleasant  haven  of  refuge  in 
the  forecastle  of  the  Acushnet  is  borne  out  by  his  drastic  pref 
erence  to  be  eaten  by  cannibals  rather  than  abide  among  the 
sureties  of  the  ship  and  her  company.  That  he  "left  the  ship, 
being  oppressed  with  hard  fare  and  hard  usage,  in  the  sum 
mer  of  1842  with  a  companion,  Richard  T.  Greene  (Toby)  at 
the  bay  of  Nukuheva  in  the  Marquesas  Islands''  is  the  state 
ment  in  the  journal  of  his  wife  vividly  elaborated  in  Typee. 

Of  Melville's  history  aboard  the  Acushnet  there  is  no 
straightforward  account.  Redburn,  Typee,  Onioo  and  White-^,. 
Jacket  are  transparent  chapters  in  autobiography.  From  his 
experiences  on  board  the  Acushnet  Melville  draws  generously 
in  Moby-Dick :  but  these  experiences  do  not  for  one  moment 
pretend  to  be  the  whole  of  the  literal  truth.  Only  an  insanity 
as  lurid  as  Captain  Ahab's  would  mistake  Moby-Dick  for  a 
similarly  reliable  report  of  personal  experiences.  Moby-Dick 
is,  indeed,  an  autobiography  of  adventure ;  but  adventure  upon 
the  highest  plane  of  spiritual  daring.  Incidentally,  it  also  of 
fers  the  fullest,  and  truest,  and  most  readable  history  of  an 
actual  whaling  cruise  ever  written.  But  it  is  not  a  "scientific" 
history.  The  "scientific"  historian,  proudly  unreadable,  thanks 
God  that  he  has  no  style  to  tempt  him  out  of  the  strict  weari 
ness  of  counting-house  inventories;  and  in  despair  of  present 
ing  the  truth,  he  boasts  a  make-shift  veracity.  The  truest 
historians  are,  of  course,  the  poets — and  their  histories  are 
"feigned."  Melville,  writing  in  the  capacity  of  poet,  was  li 
censed  in  the  best  interests  of  truth  to  expurgate  reality.  AndT 
though  Captain  Ahab's  hunt  of  the  abhorred  Moby-Dick  be- 
longs  as  essentially  to  the  realm  of  poetry  as  does  the  quest  of 
the  Holy  Grail,  it  is,  withal,  in  its  lower  reaches,  so  broadly 
based  on  a  foundation  of  solid  reality  that  it  is  possible,  by  con 
sidering  Moby-Dick  in  double  conjunction  with  the  few  facts 
explicitly  known  of  Melville  during  the  period  of  his  whaling 
cruise,  and  the  wealth  of  facts  known  of  whaling  in  general, 


134  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

to  block  in,  with  a  considerable  degree  of  certainty,  the  con 
tours  of  his  experiences  aboard  the  Acushnet. 

By  all  odds,  the  chief  chapter  in  the  history  of  whaling  is 
the  story  of  its  rise  and  practical  extinction  in  the  Southern 
New  England  States.  In  this  limited  geographical  area,  trade 
in  "oil  and  bone"  was  pursued  with  an  alacrity,  an  enterprise 
and  a  prosperity  unparalleled  in  the  world's  history.  When, 
in  1841,  Melville  boarded  the  Acushnet,  American  whaling, 
after  a  development  through  nearly  two  centuries,  was  within 
a  decade  of  its  highest  development,  within  two  decades  of  its 
precipitous  decay.  The  doom  of  whale-oil  lamps  and  sperm 
candles  was  ultimately  decided  in  1859  with  the  opening  of 
the  first  oil  well  in  Pennsylvania,  and  sealed  by  the  Civil  War. 
Melville  knew  American  whaling  at  the  prime  of  its  golden  age, 
and  taking  it  at  its  crest,  he  raised  it  in  fiction  to  a  dignity 
and  significance  incomparably  higher  than  it  ever  reached  in 
literal  fact. 

At  the  beginning  of  Moby-Dick,  Melville  culls  from  the 
most  incongruous  volumes  an  anthology  of  comments  upon 
Leviathan,  beginning  with  the  Mosaic  comment  "And  God 
created  great  whales,"  and  ending,  after  eclectic  quotations 
from  Pliny,  Lucian,  Rabelais,  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  Spenser, 
Hobbes,  Bunyan,  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  Paley,  Blackstone, 
Hawthorne,  Daniel  Webster,  Darwin,  and  dozens  of  others 
(including  an  excerpt  "From  'Something'  Unpublished")  ends 
on  the  old  whale  song : 

"Oh,  the  rare  old  whale,  mid  storm  and  gale 
In  his  ocean  home  will  be 
A  giant  in  might,  where  might  is  right, 
And  King  of  the  boundless  sea." 

Rather  than  conventionally  distribute  his  quotations  through 
out  the  book  as  chapter  headings,  Melville  offers  them  all  in  a 
block  at  the  beginning  of  the  volume,  somewhat  after  the 
manner  of  Franklin's  grace  said  over  the  pork  barrel.  And 
extraordinarily  effective  is  this  device  of  Melville's  in  stirring 
the  reader's  interest  to  a  sense  of  the  wonder  and  mystery  of 
this  largest  of  all  created  live  things,  of  the  wild  and  distant 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM          135 

seas  wherein  he  rolls  his  island  bulk;  of  the  undeliverable, 
nameless  perils  of  the  whale  with  all  the  attending  marvels  of 
a  thousand  Patagonian  sights  and  sounds.  Even  before  the 
reader  comes  to  the  superb  opening  paragraph  of  Moby-Dick, 
the  great  flood-gates  of  the  wonder-world  are  swung  open, 
and  into  his  inmost  soul,  as  into  Melville's,  "two  by  two  there 
float  endless  processions  of  the  whale,  and  midmost  of  them 
all,  one  grand  hooded  phantom,  like  a  snow  hill  in  the  air." 

The  literature  of  whaling  slopes  down  from  Moby-Dick, 
both  before  and  after,  into  a  wilderness  of  several  hundred 
volumes. 

There  is  but  one  attempt  at  a  comprehensive  history  of  whal 
ing:  Walter  S.  Tower's  A  History  of  the  American  Whale 
Fishery  (Philadelphia,  1907).  This  slender  volume  first 
makes  a  rapid  survey  of  the  sources  and  proceeds  from  these 
to  a  cautious  selection  of  the  outstanding  documented  facts 
which  by  "economic  interpretation"  it  presents  as  a  consecutive 
story.  Devoid  of  literary  pretension,  it  is  admirable  in  accu 
racy,  compactness  and  clarity.  The  most  comprehensive  popu 
lar  treatment  of  American  whaling  is  to  be  found  in  Hyatt 
Verrill's  The  Real  Story  of  the  Whaler  (1916):  a  more 
exuberant  but  less  workmanly  book  than  Tower's.  Repre 
sentative  shorter  surveys  are  to  be  found  both  in  Winthrop 
L.  Martin's  very  able  The  American  Merchant  Marine  (1902) 
and  Willis  J.  Abbot's  American  Merchant  Ships  and  Sailors 
(1902). 

Although  the  literature  of  whaling  extends  by  repeated  di 
lutions  from  "economic  interpretations"  to  infant  books,  the 
classical  sources  for  this  extended  literature  tally  less  than  a 
score.  The  great  work  on  the  Fisheries  and  Fishing  Industries 
of  the  United  States,  prepared  under  the  direction  of  G. 
Brown  'Goode  in  1884,  contains  two  articles  on  whaling  of 
the  first  magnitude  of  importance :  Whalemen,  Vessels,  Appa 
ratus  and  Methods  of  the  Whale  Fishery  and  a  History  of  the 
Present  Condition  of  the  Whale  Fishery.  The  facts  presented 
in  these  last  two  encyclopaedic  treatments  are  drawn  princi 
pally  from  Alexander  Starbuck's  History  of  the  American 
Whale  Fishery  from  Its  Earliest  Inception  to  the  Year  1874, 


136  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

published  in  1876,  and  C.  M.  Scammon's  Marine  Mammals  of 
the  North  Western  Coast  of  North  America,  with  an  Account 
of  the  American  Whale  Fishery,  published  in  1874.  Lorenzo 
Sabine's  Report  on  the  Principal  Fisheries  of  the  American 
Seas,  published  in  1870,  while  prior  to  the  monumental  works 
of  Starbuck  and  Scammon  in  date  of  publication,  enjoys  no 
other  priority.  The  most  complete  and  detailed  treatment  of 
the  origin  and  early  development  of  whaling  is  to  be  found 
in  William  Scoresby's  An  Account  of  the  Arctic  Regions, 
dated  1820.  Scoresby — "the  justly  renowned,"  according  to 
Melville;  "the  excellent  voyager" — was  an  English  naval 
officer,  and  in  his  discussion  of  the  whale  fishery  he  deals 
solely  with  the  European  and  principally  with  the  British 
industry.  But  Scoresby's  book  is  principally  a  classic  as  re 
gards  the  earlier  history  of  whaling.  Scoresby  seems  to  have 
convinced  all  later  historians  in  this  field  of  the  folly  of 
further  research.  Melville  knew  Scoresby's  book — "I  honour 
him  for  a  veteran/'  Melville  confesses — and  drew  from  its 
erudition  in  Moby-Dick.  Obed  Macy's  History  of  Nantucket, 
published  in  1836,  is  one  of  the  few  important  original  sources 
for  the  history  of  whaling,  and  the  most  readable.  Melville 
expresses  repeated  indebtedness  to  Macy.  Macy's  record  has 
the  tang  of  first-hand  experience,  and  the  flavour  of  local 
records.  Because  of  the  fact  that  many  of  the  records  from 
which  this  fine  old  antiquary  of  whales  drew  have  since  been 
destroyed  by  fire,  his  book  enjoys  the  heightened  authority 
of  being  a  unique  source.  According  to  Anatole  France,  the 
perplexities  of  historians  begin  where  events  are  related  by 
two  or  by  several  witnesses,  "for  their  evidence  is  always  con 
tradictory  and  always  irreconcilable."  The  fire  at  Nantucket 
blazed  a  royal  road  to  truth.  Daniel  Ricketson,  in  his  History 
of  New  Bedford  (1850)  attempted  to  emulate  Macy.  And 
though  Ricketson's  sources,  as  Macy's,  have  been  largely 
destroyed  by  fire,  his  authority,  though  irrefutable  in  so  far 
as  it  goes,  is  less  detailed  and  comprehensive. 

Of  published  personal  narrative  of  whale-hunting,  Owen 
Chase's  Narrative  of  the  Most  Extraordinary  and  Distressing 
Ship  Wreck  of  the  Whale  Ship  Essex  of  Nantucket,  published 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM          137 

in  1821,  as  well  as  F.  D.  Bennett's  two-volume  Narrative  of  a 
Voyage  Round  the  World,  published  1833-36,  were  drawn 
from  by  Melville  in  Moby-Dick.  The  account  of  the  sinking 
of  the  Essex  is  important  as  being  the  source  from  which  Mel 
ville  borrowed,  with  superb  transformation,  the  catastrophe 
with  which  he  closes  Moby-Dick.  The  sinking  of  the  Essex 
— recounted  in  Moby-Dick — is  the  first  and  best  known  in 
stance  of  a  ship  being  actually  sent  to  the  bottom  by  the  ram 
ming  of  an  infuriated  whale,  and  in  its  sequel  it  is  one  of  the 
most  dreadful  chapters  of  human  suffering  in  all  the  hideous 
annals  of  shipwreck.  "I  have  seen  Owen  Chase,"  Melville 
says  in  Moby-Dick,  "who  was  chief  mate  of  the  Essex  at  the 
time  of  the  tragedy:  I  have  read  his  plain  and  faithful  nar 
rative  :  I  have  conversed  with  his  son ;  and  all  within  a  few 
miles  of  the  scene  of  the  tragedy."  Melville  may  here  be 
using  a  technique  learned  from  Defoe. 

Though  in  Moby-Dick  Melville  makes  several  references  to 
J.  Ross  Browne's  Etchings  of  a  Whaling  Cruise,  with  Notes 
on  a  Sojourn  on  the  Island  of  Zanzibar,  mildly  praising  some 
of  his  drawings  while  reprobating  their  reproduction,  he  owes 
no  debt  to  J.  Ross  Browne.  Melville  and  Browne  wrote  of 
whaling  with  purposes  diametrically  opposed.  Melville  gloried 
in  the  romance  of  whales,  and  horsed  on  Leviathan,  through 
a  briny  sunset  dove  down  through  the  nether-twilight  into  the 
blackest  haunted  caverns  of  the  soul.  Browne  provokes  no 
such  rhetorical  extravagance  of  characterisation.  He  sat  so 
berly  and  firmly  down  on  a  four-legged  chair  before  a  four- 
legged  desk  and  wrote  up  his  travels.  "My  design,"  he  says, 
"is  simply  to  present  to  the  public  a  faithful  delineation  of  the 
life  of  a  whaleman.  In  doing  this,  I  deem  it  necessary  that  I 
should  aim  rather  at  the  truth  itself  than  at  mere  polish  of 
style."  So  Browne  made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  convinced 
that  "history  scarcely  furnishes  a  parallel  for  the  deeds  of 
cruelty"  then  "prevalent  in  the  whale  fishery,"  he  sent  his  book 
forth  "to  show  in  what  manner  the  degraded  condition  of  a 
portion  of  our  fellow-creatures  can  be  ameliorated."  In  a 
study  of  Melville's  life,  Browne  is  important  as  presenting  an 
ungarnished  account  of  typical  conditions  aboard  a  whaler  at 


138  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

the  time  Melville  was  cruising  in  the  Acushnet.  Useful  in 
the  same  way  are  R.  Delano's  Wanderings  and  Adventures; 
Being  a  Narrative  of  Twelve  Years'  Life  in  a  IV  hale  ship 
(1846)  and  Captain  Davis'  spirited  overhauling  of  his  jour 
nal  kept  during  a  whaling  trip,  published  in  1872  under  the 
title  Ninirod  of  the  Sea. 

Though  whales  and  Pilgrim  Fathers  would,  at  first  blush, 
seem  to  belong  to  two  mutually  repugnant  orders  of  nature,  yet 
were  they,  by  force  of  circumstance,  early  thrown  into  a 
warring  intimacy.  And  strangely  enough,  in  this  armed 
alliance,  it  was  the  whale  who  made  the  first  advances.  Rich 
ard  Mather,  who  came  to  Massachusetts  Bay  colony  in  1635, 
records  in  his  journal,  according  to  Sabine,  the  presence  off  the 
New  England  coast  of  "mighty  whales  spewing  up  water  in 
the  air  like  the  smoke  of  a  chimney  ...  of  such  incredible 
bigness  that  I  will  never  wonder  that  the  body  of  Jonah  could 
be  in  the  belly  of  a  whale."  From  this  and  other  evidence  it 
seems  undoubted  that  in  early  colonial  days  whales  were  un 
daunted  by  the  strict  observances  of  the  Pilgrims,  and  browsed 
in  great  numbers,  even  on  Sabbath,  within  the  sight  of  land. 
Yet,  despite  this  open  violation  of  Scripture,  the  resourceful 
Puritan  pressed  them  into  the  service  of  true  religion.  Be 
lieving  that 

Whales  in  the  sea 
God's  voice  obey, 

they  tolerated  leviathan  as  an  emissary  more  worthy  than 
Elijah's  raven.  And  whenever  an  obedient  whale,  harkening 
to  the  voice  of  God  in  the  wilderness,  was  cast  ashore,  a  part 
of  his  bulk  was  fittingly  appropriated  for  the  support  of  the 
ministry. 

Tower  establishes  the  fact  that  among  the  first  colonists 
there  were  men  at  least  acquainted  with,  if  not  actually  experi 
enced  in  whaling.  And  it  is  quite  generally  accepted  that  the 
settlement  of  Massachusetts  was  prompted  not  only  by  a  prot- 
estant  determination  to  worship  God  after  the  dictates  of  a 
rebellious  conscience,  but  by  a  no  less  firm  determination  to 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM          139 

vary  Sunday  observances  with  the  enjoyment  on  secular  days 
of  unrestricted  fishing.  As  a  result  of  this  double  Puritan 
interest  in  worship  and  whaling,  the  history  of  the  American 
whaling  fishery  begins  almost  with  the  settlement  of  the 
New  England  colonies. 

By  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century,  whaling  was  estab 
lished  as  a  regular  business,  if  still  on  a  comparatively  small 
scale,  in  the  different  Massachusetts  colonies,  especially  from 
Cape  Cod ;  from  the  towns  at  the  eastern  end  of  Long  Island, 
and  from  Nantucket.  With  the  very  notable  exceptions  of 
New  London,  Connecticut,  and  New  Bedford  and  the  neigh 
bouring  ports  in  Buzzard's  Bay,  every  locality  subsequently  to 
become  important  in  its  whaling  interests  was  well  launched 
in  this  enterprise  before  1700.  New  London  did  not  begin 
whaling  until  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century.  New  Bed 
ford,  though  almost  the  last  place  to  appear  as  a  whaling  port 
— and  this  immediately  before  the  Revolution — was  destined 
to  stand,  within  a  century  after  its  beginnings  in  whaling,  the 
greatest  whaling  port  the  world  has  ever  known,  the  city  which, 
in  the  full  glory  of  whaling  prosperity,  would  send  out  more 
vessels  than  all  other  American  ports  combined. 

The  earliest  colonial  adventurers  in  whaling  were  men  who 
by  special  appointment  were  engaged  to  be  on  the  lookout  for 
whales  cast  ashore.  Emboldened  by  commerce  with  drift- 
whales,  these  Puritan  whalemen  soon  took  to  boats  to  chase 
and  kill  whales  which  came  close  in,  but  which  were  not  actu 
ally  stranded. 

In  1712,  through  the  instrumentality  of  Christopher  Hus- 
sey,  Providence  utilised  a  hardship  to  His  creature  to  work 
a  revolution  in  whaling.  Hussey,  while  cruising  along  the 
coast,  was  caught  up  by  a  strong  northerly  wind,  and  despite 
his  prayers  and  his  seamanship  was  blown  out  to  sea.  When 
the  sky  cleared,  Hussey's  craft  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  by  the 
anxious  watchers  on  shore.  After  awaiting  his  return  for  a 
decent  number  of  days,  his  wife  and  neighbours  at  home  gave 
him  up  as  lost.  But  in  the  middle  of  their  tribulations,  a 
familiar  sail  dipped  over  the  horizon,  and  Hussey  slowly 
headed  landward,  dragging  a  dead  sperm  whale  in  tow:  the 


140  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

first  sperm  whale  known  to  have  been  taken  by  an  American 
whaler. 

Hussey's  exploit  marked  a  radical  change  in  whaling  meth 
ods.  All  Nantucket  lusted  after  sperm  whales.  The  indom 
itable  islanders  began  immediately  to  fit  vessels,  usually  sloops 
of  about  thirty  tons,  to  whale  out  in  the  "deep."  These  little 
vessels  were  fitted  out  for  cruises  of  about  six  weeks.  On  their 
narrow  decks  there  was  no  room  for  the  apparatus  necessary 
to  "try  out''  the  oil.  So  the  blubber  stripped  from  the  whale 
was  cast  into  the  hold,  the  oil  awaiting  extraction  until  the 
vessel  returned.  Then  the  reeking  whale  fat,  its  stench  smit 
ing  the  face  of  heaven,  was  transferred  to  the  huge  kettles  of 
the  "try  houses."  There  is  an  old  saying  that  a  nose  that  is 
a  nose  at  all  can  smell  a  whaler  twenty  miles  to  windward. 
The  New  England  indifference  to  the  stenches  of  whaling  sug 
gests  that  the  Puritan  contempt  for  the  flesh  was  not  a  virtue 
but  a  deformity. 

Other  whaling  communities  ventured  out  after  the  sperm 
whale  in  the  wake  of  Nantucket.  Year  after  year  the  colonial 
whalemen  pushed  further  and  further  out  into  the  "deep" 
as  their  gigantic  quarry  retreated  before  them.  In  1774,  Cap 
tain  Uriah  Bunker,  in  the  brig  Amazon  of  Nantucket,  made  the 
first  whaling  voyage  across  the  equinoctial  line  to  the  Brazil 
Banks  and,  according  to  local  tradition,  returned  to  port  with 
a  "full  ship"  on  April  19,  1775,  just  as  the  redcoats  were  in 
full  retreat  from  Concord  Bridge. 

The  Revolutionary  War  dealt  a  terrific  blow  to  American 
whaling.  Massachusetts  wras  regarded  as  the  hotbed  of  the 
Revolutionary  spirit,  and  that  colony  was  also  the  centre  of 
the  fishing  industries.  Hence,  in  1775,  "to  starve  New  Eng 
land,"  Parliament  passed  the  famous  act  restricting  colonial 
trade  to  British  ports,  and  placing  an  embargo  on  fishing  on 
the  Banks  of  Newfoundland  or  on  any  other  part  of  the  North 
American  coast.  It  was  this  same  measure  which  inspired 
Burke  in  his  Speech  on  Conciliation  to  his  superbly  eloquent 
tribute  to  the  exploits  of  the  American  whalemen.  When 
the  war  began  there  were  in  the  whole  American  fleet  between 
three  and  four  hundred  vessels — of  an  aggregate  of  about 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM          141 

thirty-three  thousand  tons.  The  annual  product  of  this  fleet 
was,  according  to  Starbuck's  estimate,  "probably  at  least  45,000 
barrels  of  spermaceti  oil,  and  8,500  barrels  of  right  whale 
oil,  and  of  bone  nearly  or  quite  75,000  pounds."  Of  all  whal 
ing  communities,  the  island  of  Nantucket  held  out  most  stoutly, 
•. — aided  by  Melville's  grandfather,  who  was  sent  to  Nantucket 
in  command  of  a  detachment  to  watch  the  movements  of  the 
British  fleet.  Yet  when  the  war  ended  in  1783,  Macy  says 
that  of  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  Nantucket  vessels,  only  two 
or  three  old  hulks  remained.  In  Nantucket,  the  money  loss 
exceeded  one  million  dollars.  So  many  of  the  young  and  ac 
tive  men  perished  in  the  war  that  in  the  eight  hundred  Nan 
tucket  families  there  were  two  hundred  and  two  widows  and 
three  hundred  and  forty-two  orphan  children. 

But  even  in  the  face  of  such  prodigal  disaster,  the  fiery 
spirit  of  Nantucket  was  unquenchable.  When  the  news  came 
of  the  peace  of  1783,  the  Bedford,  just  returned  to  Nantucket 
from  a  voyage,  was  hastily  laden  with  oil  and  cleared  for  Lon 
don.  This  was,  as  a  contemporary  London  newspaper  re 
marks,  "the  first  vessel  which  displayed  the  thirteen  rebellious 
stripes  of  America  in  any  British  port." 

Through  the  four  decades  following  the  Revolutionary  War, 
the  American  whale  fishery  lived  a  precarious  existence  of  con 
stant  ups  and  downs.  The  whaling  voyages  were  greatly 
lengthened  during  this  period,  however.  In  1789  Nantucket 
•whalemen  first  went  hunting  the  sperm  whale  off  Madagascar, 
and  in  1791  six  whaleships  fitted  out  at  Nantucket  for  the 
Pacific  Ocean. 

The  years  between  1820  and  1835  were  marked  mainly  by 
stable  conditions  and  by  a  steady  but  gradual  growth.  In 
1820  the  Pacific  whaling  was  extended  to  the  coast  of  Japan, 
and  within  the  next  few  years  the  whalers  were  going  to  all 
parts  of  the  South  Sea  and  Indian  Ocean.  And  these  years 
marked,  too,  the  falling  of  Nantucket  from  her  hundred  years 
of  pre-eminence  in  whaling,  and  the  emergence  of  New  Bed 
ford  as  incomparably  the  greatest  whaling  port  in  the  history 
of  the  world.  It  was  a  Nantucket  whaler,  however,  who  in 
^835  captured  the  first  right  whale  on  the  northwest  coast  of 


142  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

America,  thereby  opening  one  of  the  most  important  grounds 
ever  visited  by  the  whaling  fleet. 

The  Golden  Age  of  whaling  falls  between  1835  and  1860. 
In  1846  the  whaling  fleet  assumed  the  greatest  proportions 
it  was  ever  to  know.  In  that  year,  the  fleet  numbered  six 
hundred  and  eighty  ships  and  barks,  thirty-four  brigs,  and 
twenty-two  schooners,  with  an  aggregate  of  somewhat  over 
two  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  tons.  The  value  of  the 
fleet  alone  at  that  time  exceeded  twenty-one  million  dollars, 
while  all  the  investments  connected  with  the  business  are 
estimated,  according  to  Tower,  at  seventy  million  dollars,  fur 
nishing  the  chief  support  of  seventy  thousand  persons.  This 
great  industry,  so  widespread  in  its  operation,  emanated,  at 
the  time  of  its  most  extensive  development,  from  a  cluster  of 
thirty-eight  whaling  ports  distributed  along  the  southern  New 
England  coast  from  Cape  Cod  to  New  York,  and  on  the  islands 
to  the  south.  The  greatest  of  all  the  whaling  ports,  from  1820 
onward,  was  New  Bedford. 

During  the  really  great  days  of  the  whale  fishery,  the 
Pacific  was  by  all  odds  the  chief  fishing  ground.  During  the 
early  eighteen-thirties,  the  Nantucket  fleet  began  cruising 
mainly  in  the  Pacific,  and  after  1840,  the  Nantucket  whalers 
hunted  there  almost  exclusively.  The  Nantucket  fleet  was 
soon  followed  by  the  majority  of  the  New  Bedford  fleet, 
and  a  large  proportion  of  the  New  London  and  Sag  Harbor 
vessels. 

These  vessels,  manned  by  a  mixed  company  of  Quakers, 
farm  boys,  and  a  supplementary  compound  of  the  dredgings 
of  the  terrestrial  globe,  would  usually  be  gone  for  three  years, 
not  infrequently  for  four  or  five.  As  long  as  the  craft  held, 
and  the  food  lasted,  and  an  empty  barrel  lay  in  the  hold, 
the  captain  kept  to  the  broad  ocean,  eschewing  both  the  allure 
ments  of  home  and  the  seductions  of  tattooed  Didoes.  When 
at  last  they  sailed  into  the  harbour  of  their  home  ports,  weed- 
grown,  storm-beaten,  patched  and  forlorn,  they  usually  looked, 
as  Verrill  says,  more  like  the  ghosts  of  ancient  wrecks  than 
seaworthy  carriers  of  precious  cargo  manned  by  crews  of 
flesh  and  blood.  After  a  few  months  of  repair  and  over- 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM  143 

hauling  in  port,  these  vessels  were  refitted  for  another  cruise, 
and  off  they  sailed  again  for  another  space  of  years.  It  thus 
happened  that  the  veteran  whalers  of  Nantucket  and  New 
Bedford  and  the  sister  ports  could  look  back  upon  whole  dec 
ades  of  their  lives  spent  cruising  upon  the  high  seas :  a  fact 
that  Melville  amplifies  with  a  cadence  he  learned  from  the 
Psalms.  Of  the  Nantucketer  he  says:  "For  the  sea  is  his; 
he  owns  it,  as  Emperors  own  empires;  other  seamen  having 
but  a  right  of  way  through  it.  He  alone  resides  and  riots  on 
the  sea ;  he  alone,  in  Bible  language,  goes  down  to  it  in  ships ; 
to  and  fro  ploughing  it  as  his  own  special  plantation.  There 
is  his  home ;  there  lies  his  business,  which  a  Noah's  flood  would 
not  interrupt,  though  it  overwhelmed  all  the  millions  in  China. 
He  lives  on  the  sea,  as  prairie  cocks  on  the  prairie;  he  hides 
among  the  waves,  he  climbs  them  as  chamois  hunters  climb 
the  Alps.  For  years  he  knows  not  the  land ;  so  that  when  he 
comes  to  it  at  last,  it  smells  like  another  world,  more  strangely 
than  the  moon  would  to  an  earthsman.  With  the  landless 
gull,  that  at  sunset  folds  her  wrings  and  is  rocked  to  sleep 
between  billows ;  so  at  nightfall,  the  Nantucketer,  out  of  sight 
of  land,  furls  his  sails,  and  lays  him  to  his  rest,  while  under 
his  very  pillow  rush  herds  of  walruses  and  whales." 

The  number  of  supplies,  and  the  variety  of  articles  required 
in  fitting  out  a  whaling  ship  for  a  cruise,  was,  of  course,  prodi 
gious.  For  aside  from  the  articles  required  in  whaling,  it  was 
necessary  that  a  whaling  vessel  should  sail  prepared  for  any 
emergency,  and  equipped  to  be  absolutely  independent  of  the 
rest  of  the  world  for  years  at  a  time,  housekeeping  upon  the 
wide  ocean,  far  from  all  grocers,  costermongers,  doctors,  bak 
ers  and  bankers.  Aside  from  the  necessary  whaling  equip 
ment,  there  were  needed  supplies  for  the  men,  ship's  stores  and 
a  dizzy  number  of  incidentals:  "spare  boats,  spare  spars,  and 
spare  lines  and  harpoons,  and  spare  everythings,  almost,  but  a 
spare  Captain  and  a  duplicate  ship.  .  .  .  While  other  hulls 
are  loaded  down  with  alien  stuff,  to  be  transferred  to  foreign 
wharves,  the  world-wandering  whale-ship  carries  no  cargo 
but  herself  and  crew,  their  weapons  and  their  wants.  She  has 
a  whole  lake's  contents  bottled  in  her  ample  hold.  She  is 


144  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ballasted  with  utilities.  Hence  it  is,  that,  while  other  ships  may 
have  gone  to  China  from  New  York,  and  back  again,  touching 
at  a  score  of  ports,  the  whale-ship,  in  all  that  interval,  may 
not  have  sighted  one  grain  of  soil;  her  crew  having  seen  no 
man  but  floating  seamen  like  themselves.  So  that  did  you 
carry  them  the  news  that  another  flood  had  come ;  they  would 
answer — 'Well,  boys,  here's  the  ark !' '  N.  H.  Nye,  a  New 
Bedford  outfitter,  published  in  1858  an  inventory  of  Articles 
for  a  Whaling  Voyage:  a  shopping  list  totalling  some  650  en 
tries,  useful  once  to  whalers  with  fallible  memories,  useful  now 
to  landsmen  with  lame  imaginations. 

When,  from  such  a  port  as  Nantucket  or  New  Bedford,  a 
whaling  vessel  was  preparing  to  sail,  there  would  be  no  house, 
perhaps,  without  some  interest  in  the  cruise.  Each  took  a 
personal  pride  in  the  success  of  the  whalers :  a  pride  clinched 
by  the  economic  dependence  of  nearly  every  soul  in  the  com 
munity  upon  the  whalemen's  luck.  During  the  time  of  con 
tinual  fetching  and  carrying  preparatory  to  the  sailing  in  Moby- 
Dick,  no  one  was  more  active,  it  will  be  remembered,  than  Aunt 
Charity  Bildad,  that  lean  though  kind-hearted  old  Quaker 
ess  of  indefatigable  spirit.  "At  one  time  she  would  come  on 
board  with  a  jar  of  pickles  for  the  steward's  pantry;  another 
time  with  a  bunch  of  quills  for  the  chief  mate's  desk,  where 
he  kept  his  log;  a  third  time  with  a  roll  of  flannel  for  the 
small  of  some  one's  rheumatic  back."  Hither  and  thither  she 
bustled  about,  "ready  to  turn  her  hand  and  her  heart  to  any 
thing  that  promised  to  yield  safety,  comfort  and  consolation 
to  all  on  board  a  ship  in  which  her  beloved  brother  Bildad  was 
concerned,  and  in  which  she  herself  owned  a  score  or  two  of 
well-saved  dollars."  Nor  did  she  forsake  the  ship  even  after 
it  had  been  hauled  out  from  the  wharf.  She  came  off  in  the 
whaleboat  with  a  nightcap  for  the  second  mate,  her  brother- 
in-law,  and  a  spare  Bible  for  the  steward.  Such  were  the 
conditions  in  whaling-towns  like  Nantucket  or  New  Bedford 
that  there  was  nothing  remarkable  in  Aunt  Charity's  behaviour. 
In  such  communities,  "whale  was  King."  The  talk  of  the 
street  was,  as  Abbot  observes,  of  big  catches  and  the  price  of 
oil  and  bone.  The  conversation  in  the  shaded  parlours,  where 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM  145 

sea-shell,  coral,  and  the  trophies  of  Pacific  cruises  were  the 
chief  ornaments,  was,  in  an  odd  mixture  of  Quaker  idiom,  of 
prospective  cruises  or  of  past  adventures,  of  distant  husbands 
and  sons,  the  perils  they  braved,  and  when  they  might  be  ex 
pected  home.  Col.  Joseph  C.  Hart,  in  his  Miriam  Coffin,  or 
the  Whale  Fishermen:  a  Tale  (1834)  offers  perhaps  the  truest 
and  most  vivid  picture  of  life  in  Nantucket  when  whaling  was 
at  its  prime.  Speaking  of  himself  in  the  third  person  in  the 
dedication,  Hart  describes  his  book  as  being  "founded  on  facts, 
and  illustrating  some  of  the  scenes  with  which  he  was  con 
versant  in  his  earlier  days,  together  with  occurrences  with 
which  he  is  familiar  from  tradition  and  association."  Though 
reprinted  in  California  in  1872,  Miriam  Coffin  is  now  very 
difficult  to  come  by.  It  should  be  better  known. 

The  extended  voyages  of  the  American  whaleman  were 
made  in  heavy,  bluff-bowed  and  "tubby"  crafts  that  were 
designed  with  fine  contempt  for  speed,  comfort  or  appear 
ance.  In  writing  of  Nantucket  whaling  during  the  period 
about  1750,  Macy  says:  "They  began  now  to  employ  vessels 
of  larger  size,  some  of  100  ton  burden,  and  a  few  were  square- 
rigged."  For  over  a  century  thereafter  the  changes  in  whaling 
vessels  were  almost  solely  in  size.  With  the  opening  of  the 
Pacific,  the  longer  voyages  and  the  desire  for  larger  cargoes 
led,  as  a  necessary  result,  to  the  employment  of  larger  vessels. 
The  first  Nantucket  ship  sailing  to  the  Pacific  in  1791  was  of 
24Oton  burden.  By  1826,  Nantucket  had  seventy-two  ships 
carrying  over  280  tons  each,  and  before  1850  whalers  of  400 
to  500  tons  burden  were  not  unusual.  The  Acushnet,  it  will 
be  remembered,  was  rated  as  a  ship  of  359  tons. 

The  vessels  used  in  whaling,  built,  as  has  been  said,  less 
with  a  view  to  speed  than  to  carrying  capacity,  had  a  charac 
teristic  architecture.  The  bow  was  scarce  distinguishable  from 
the  stern  by  its  lines,  and  the  masts  stuck  up  straight,  without 
that  rake  which  adds  so  much  to  the  trim  appearance  of  a  clip 
per.  Three  peculiarities  chiefly  distinguished  the  whalers  from 
other  ships  of  the  same  general  character.  ( i )  At  each  mast 
head  was  fixed  the  "crow's-nest"" — in  some  vessels  a  heavy 
barrel  lashed  to  the  mast,  in  others  merely  a  small  platform  laid 


146  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

on  the  cross-trees,  with  two  hoops  fixed  to  the  mast  above, 
within  which  the  look-out  could  stand  in  safety.  Throughout 
Melville's  experiences  at  sea,  in  the  merchant  marines,  in 
whalers,  and  in  the  navy,  it  appears  that  his  happiest  moments 
were  spent  on  mast-heads.  (2)  On  the  deck,  amidships,  stood 
the  "try-works,"  brick  furnaces  holding  two  or  three  great 
kettles,  in  which  the  blubber  was  reduced  to  odourless  oil. 
(3)  Along  each  rail  were  heavy,  clumsy  wooden  cranes,  or 
davits,  from  which  hung  the  whale  boats — never  less  than  five, 
sometimes  more — while  still  others  were  lashed  to  the  deck. 
For  these  boats  were  the  whales*  sport  and  playthings,  and 
seldom  was  a  big  "fish'*  made  fast  without  there  being  work 
made  for  the  ship's  carpenter. 

As  for  the  crow's-nest,  and  the  business  of  standing  mast 
heads,  Melville  has  more  than  a  word  to  say.  As  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  wrote  in  the  Garden  of  Cyrus  of  "the  Quincuncial 
Lozenge,  or  Net-Work  Plantations  of  the  Ancients,  Artifi 
cially,  Naturally,  Mystically  Considered,"  to  find,  as  Coleridge 
remarks,  "quincunxes  in  heaven  above,  quincunxes  in  earth 
below,  quincunxes  in  the  mind  of  man,  quincunxes  in  tones, 
in  optic  nerves,  in  roots  of  trees,  in  leaves,  in  everything,"  so 
Melville  finds  the  visible  and  invisible  universe  a  symbolic 
prefiguring  of  all  the  detailed  peculiarities  of  whaling.  In  the 
town  of  Babel  he  finds  a  great  stone  mast-head  that  went  by 
the  board  in  the  dread  gale  of  God's  wrath;  and  in  St.  Simon 
Stylites,  he  discovers  "a  remarkable  instance  of  a  dauntless 
stander-of-mast-heads,  who  was  not  to  be  driven  from  his 
place  by  fogs  or  frosts,  rain,  hail,  or  sleet;  but  valiantly  facing 
everything  out  to  the  last,  literally  died  at  his  post."  And  in 
Napoleon  upon  the  top  of  the  column  of  Vendome,  in  Wash 
ington  atop  his  pillar  in  Baltimore,  as  in  many  another  man 
of  stone  or  iron  or  bronze,  he  sees  standers  of  mast-heads. 

In  most  American  whalemen,  the  mast-heads  were  manned 
almost  simultaneously  with  the  vessel's  leaving  her  port;  and 
this  even  though  she  often  had  fifteen  thousand  miles,  and 
more,  to  sail  before  reaching  her  proper  cruising  ground. 
And  if,  after  a  three,  four,  or  five  years'  voyage,  she  found 
herself  drawing  near  home  with  empty  casks,  then  her  mast- 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM  147 

heads  were  frequently  kept  manned,  even  until  her  skysail- 
poles  sailed  in  among  the  spires  of  her  home  port. 

The  three  mast-heads  were  kept  manned  from  sunrise  to 
sunset,  the  seamen  taking  regular  turns  (as  at  the  helm)  and 
relieving  each  other  every  two  hours,  watching  to  catch  the 
faint  blur  of  vapour  whose  spouting  marks  the  presence  of 
a  whale.  "There  she  blows!  B-1-o-o-ws!  Blo-o-ows!"  was 
then  sung  out  from  the  mast-head  :  the  signal  for  the  chase. 

As  for  Melville,  he  tries  to  convince  us  he  kept  very  sorry 
watch,  as  in  the  serene  weather  of  the  tropics,  he  perched  "a 
hundred  feet  above  the  silent  decks,  striding  along  the  deep, 
as  if  the  masts  were  gigantic  stilts,  while  beneath  you  and 
between  your  legs,  as  it  were,  swim  the  huge  monsters  of 
the  deep,  even  as  ships  once  sailed  between  the  boots  of  the 
famous  Colossus  of  old  Rhodes/*  There,  through  his  watches, 
he  used  to  swing,  he  says,  "lost  in  the  infinite  series  of  the  sea, 
with  nothing  ruffled  but  the  waves.  The  tranced  ship  indo 
lently  rolls ;  the  drowsy  trade  winds  blow ;  everything  resolves 
you  into  languor/'  "I  used  to  lounge  up  the  rigging  very 
leisurely,  resting  in  the  top  to  have  a  chat  with  Queequeg,  or 
any  one  else  off  duty  whom  I  might  find  there ;  then  ascending 
a  little  way  further,  and  throwing  a  lazy  leg  over  the  topsail 
yard,  take  a  preliminary  view  of  the  watery  pastures,  and  so 
at  last  mount  to  my  ultimate  destination."  According  to  Mel 
ville's  own  representation,  the  Acushnet  was  not  a  pint  of  oil 
richer  for  all  his  watching  in  the  thought-engendering  altitude 
of  the  crow's-nest.  He  admonishes  all  ship-owners  of  Nan- 
tucket  to  eschew  the  bad  business  of  shipping  "romantic,  melan 
choly,  absent-minded  young  men,  disgusted  with  the  cankering 
cares  of  earth" :  young  men  seeking  sentiment — as  did  he — in 
tar  and  blubber.  "Childe  Harold  not  infrequently  perches  him 
self  upon  the  mast-head  of  some  luckless  disappointed  whale- 
ship,"  he  warns  prosaic  ship-owners,  "young  men  hopelessly 
lost  to  all  honourable  ambition,"  and  indifferent  to  the  selling 
qualities  of  "oil  and  bone."  It  is  well  both  for  Melville  and 
Captain  Pease,  the  testy  old  skipper  of  the  ship  Acushnet,  that 
he  could  not  see  into  the  head  of  Melville  as  he  hung  silently 
perched  in  his  dizzy  lookout.  "Lulled  into  such  an  opium- 


148  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

like  listlessness  of  vacant,  unconscious  reverie  is  this  absent- 
minded  youth  by  the  blending  cadence  of  waves  with  thoughts, 
that  at  last  he  loses  his  identity ;  takes  the  mystic  ocean  at  his 
feet  for  the  visible  image  of  that  deep,  blue,  bottomless  soul, 
pervading  mankind  and  nature;  and  every  strange,  half-seen, 
gliding,  beautiful  thing  that  eludes  him;  every  dimly-discov 
ered,  uprising  fin  of  some  undiscernible  form,  seems  to  him  the 
embodiment  of  those  elusive  thoughts  that  only  people  the  soul 
by  continually  flitting  through  it.  In  this  enchanted  mood,  thy 
spirit  ebbs  away  to  whence  it  came ;  becomes  diffused  through 
time  and  space;  like  Cranmer's  sprinkled  Pantheistic  ashes, 
forming  at  last  a  part  of  every  shore  the  round  globe  over." 

When,  from  the  mast-head,  eyes  less  abstracted  than  Mel 
ville's  sighted  a  whale,  the  daring  and  excitement  of  the 
ensuing  pursuit  in  the  whale-boats  left  Melville  less  occasion, 
during  such  energetic  intervals,  to  luxuriate  in  high  mysteries. 
And  it  seems  likely  that  Melville  was  of  more  value  to  the 
ship's  owners  when  in  a  whale-boat  than  riding  the  mast-head. 

Through  long  years  of  whaling  these  boats  had  been  de 
veloped  until  practical  perfection  had  been  reached.  Never 
has  boat  been  built  which  for  speed,  staunchness,  seaworthiness 
and  hardiness  excels  the  whaleboat  of  the  Massachusetts  whale 
men.  These  mere  cockleshells,  sharp  at  both  ends  and  clean- 
sided  as  a  mackerel,  were  about  twenty-seven  feet  long  by 
six  feet  beam,  with  a  depth  of  twenty-two  inches  amidships 
and  thirty-seven  inches  at  the  bow  and  stern.  These  tiny 
clinker-built  craft  can  ride  the  heaviest  sea,  withstand  the  high 
est  wind,  resist  the  heaviest  gale.  Incredible  voyages  have  been 
made  in  these  whaling  boats,  not  the  least  remarkable  being 
the  three  months'  voyage  of  two  boats  that  survived  the  wreck 
of  the  Essex  in  1819,  or  the  even  more  remarkable  six  months' 
voyage  of  the  whaling  boat  separated  from  the  Janet  in  1849. 
In  Mardi  Melville  describes  a  prolonged  voyage  in  a  whale- 
boat.  In  this  account  Melville  takes  one  down  to  the  very- 
plane  of  the  sea.  He  is  speaking  from  experience  when  he 
says :  "Unless  the  waves,  in  their  gambols,  toss  you  and  your 
chip  upon  one  of  their  lordly  crests,  your  sphere  of  vision  is 
little  larger  than  it  would  be  at  the  bottom  of  a  well.  At  best, 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM  149 

your  most  extended  view  in  any  one  direction,  at  least,  is  in  a 
high  slow-rolling  sea;  when  you  descend  into  the  dark  misty 
spaces,  between  long  and  uniform  swells.  Then,  for  the  mo 
ment,  it  is  like  looking  up  and  down  in  a  twilight  glade,  inter 
minable  ;  where  two  dawns,  one  on  each  hand,  seem  struggling 
through  the  semi-transparent  tops  of  the  fluid  mountains." 

Of  his  first  lowering  in  pursuit  of  a  whale,  he  says  in  Moby- 
Dick:  ''It  was  a  sight  full  of  quick  wonder  and  awe!  The 
vast  swells  of  the  omnipotent  sea;  the  surging,  hollow  roar  they 
made,  as  they  rolled  along  the  eight  gunwales,  like  gigantic 
bowls  in  a  boundless  bowling-green;  the  brief  suspended  agony 
of  the  boat,  as  it  would  tip  for  an  instant  on  the  knife-like  edge 
of  the  sharper  waves,  that  seemed  almost  threatening  to  cut  it 
in  two;  the  sudden  profound  dip  into  the  watery  glens  and 
hollows;  the  keen  spurrings  and  goadings  to  gain  the  top  of 
the  opposite  hill;  the  headlong,  sled-like  slide  down  its  other 
side : — all  these,  with  the  cries  of  the  headsmen  and  harpooners, 
and  the  shuddering  gasps  of  the  oarsmen,  and  wondrous  sight 
of  the  ivory  Pequod  bearing  down  upon  her  boats  with  out 
stretched  sails,  like  a  wild  hen  after  her  screaming  brood; — all 
this  was  thrilling.  Not  the  raw  recruit,  marching  from  the 
bosom  of  his  wife  into  the  fever  heat  of  his  first  battle;  not 
the  dead  man's  ghost  encountering  the  first  unknown  phantom 
in  the  other  world, — neither  of  these  can  feel  stranger  and 
stronger  emotions  than  that  man  does,  who  for  the  first  time 
finds  himself  pulling  into  the  charmed,  churned  circle  of  the 
hunted  sperm  whale." 

After  this  first  lowering,  Melville  returned  to  the  ship 
to  indulge  in  the  popular  nautical  diversion  of  making  his  will. 
This  ceremony  concluded,  he  says  he  looked  round  him  "tran 
quilly  and  contentedly,  like  a  quiet  ghost  with  a  clean  con 
science  sitting  inside  the  bars  of  a  snug  family  vault.  Now 
then,  thought  I,  unconsciously  rolling  up  the  sleeves  of  my 
frock,  here  goes  for  a  cool,  collected  dive  at  death  and  destruc 
tion,  and  the  devil  fetch  the  hindmost." 

In  Moby-Dick,  whales  are  sighted,  chased,  and  captured;  nor 
does  Melville  fail  to  give  detailed  accounts  of  these  activities 
or  of  the  ensuing  "cutting  in"  and  the  "trying"  of  the  oil. 


150  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

One  of  the  most  vivid  scenes  in  Moby-Dick  is  the  description 
of  the  "try-works"  in  operation. 

"By  midnight,"  says  Melville,  "the  works  were  in  full  opera 
tion.  We  were  clean  from  the  carcass;  sail  had  been  made; 
the  wind  was  freshening ;  the  wild  ocean  darkness  was  intense. 
But  that  darkness  was  licked  up  by  the  fierce  flames,  which  at 
intervals  forked  forth  from  the  sooty  flues,  and  illuminated 
every  rope  in  the  rigging,  as  with  the  famed  Greek  fire.  .  .  . 
The  hatch,  removed  from  the  top  of  the  works,  now  afforded 
a  wide  hearth  in  front  of  them.  Standing  on  this  were  the 
Tartarean  shapes  of  the  pagan  harpooners,  always  the  whale- 
ship's  stokers.  With  huge  pronged  poles  they  pitched  hissing 
masses  of  blubber  into  the  scalding  pots,  or  stirred  up  the  fires 
beneath,  till  the  snaky  flames  darted,  curling,  out  of  the  doors 
to  catch  them  by  the  feet.  The  smoke  rolled  away  in  sullen 
heaps.  To  every  pitch  of  the  ship  there  was  a  pitch  of  the 
boiling  oil,  which  seemed  all  eagerness  to  leap  into  their  faces. 
Opposite  the  mouth  of  the  works,  on  the  further  side  of  the 
wide  wooden  hearth,  was  the  windlass.  This  served  for  a  sea- 
sofa.  Here  lounged  the  watch,  when  not  otherwise  employed, 
looking  into  the  red  heat  of  the  fire,  their  tawny  features,  now 
all  begrimed  with  smoke  and  sweat,  their  matted  beards,  and 
the  contrasting  barbaric  brilliancy  of  their  teeth,  all  these 
strangely  revealed  in  the  capricious  emblazonings  of  the  works. 
As  they  narrated  to  each  other  their  unholy  adventures,  their 
tales  of  terror  told  in  words  of  mirth;  their  uncivilised  laughter 
forked  upwards  out  of  them,  like  the  flames  from  the  furnace : 
to  and  fro,  in  their  front,  the  harpooners  wildly  gesticulated 
with  their  huge  pronged  forks  and  dippers;  the  wind  howled 
on,  and  the  sea  leaped,  and  the  ship  groaned  and  dived,  yet 
steadfastly  shot  her  red  hell  further  and  further  into  the  black 
ness  of  the  sea  and  the  night;  and  scornfully  champed,  and 
viciously  spat  round  her  on  all  sides/'  During  this  scene  Mel 
ville  stood  at  the  helm,  "and  for  long  silent  hours  guarded 
the  way  of  this  fire-ship  on  the  sea.  Wrapped,  for  that  inter 
val,  in  darkness  myself,  I  but  the  better  saw  the  redness,  the 
madness,  the  ghastliness  of  others.  The  continual  sight  of  the 
fiend  shapes  before  me,  capering  half  in  smoke  and  half  in  fire 


BLUBBER  AND  MYSTICISM  151 

these  at  last  begat  kindred  visions  in  my  soul,  so  soon  as  I 
began  to  yield  to  that  unaccountable  drowsiness  which  ever 
would  come  over  me  at  a  midnight  helm." 

In  a  chapter  on  dreams,  in  Mardi,  one  of  the  wildest  chap 
ters  Melville  ever  wrote,  and  the  one  in  which  he  profoundly 
searched  into  the  heart  of  his  mystery,  he  compares  his  dreams 
to  a  vast  herd  of  buffaloes,  "browsing  on  to  the  horizon,  and 
browsing  on  round  the  world;  and  among  them,  I  dash  with 
my  lance,  to  spear  one,  ere  they  all  flee."  In  this  world  of 
dreams,  "passing  and  repassing,  like  Oriental  empires  in  his 
tory/'  Melville  discerned,  "far  in  the  background,  hazy  and 
blue,  their  steeps  let  down  from  the  sky,  Andes  on  Andes, 
rooted  on  Alps;  and  all  round  me,  long  rolling  oceans,  roll 
Amazons  and  Orinocos;  waver,  mounted  Parthians;  and  to 
and  fro,  toss  the  wide  woodlands:  all  the  world  an  elk,  and 
the  forest  its  antlers.  Beneath  me,  at  the  equator,  the  earth 
pulses  and  beats  like  a  warrior's  heart,  till  I  know  not  whether 
it  be  not  myself.  And  my  soul  sinks  down  to  the  depths,  and 
soars  to  the  skies ;  and  comet-like  reels  on  through  such  bound 
less  expanses,  that  methinks  all  the  worlds  are  my  kin,  and  I 
invoke  them  to  stay  in  their  course.  Yet,  like  a  mighty  three 
decker,  towing  argosies  by  scores,  I  tremble,  gasp,  and  strain 
in  my  flight,  and  fain  would  cast  off  the  cables  that  hamper." 

On  that  night  that  Melville  drowsed  at  the  helm  of  the 
Acushnet  while  she  was  "freighted  with  savages,  and  laden 
with  fire,  and  burning  a  corpse,  and  plunging  into  that  black 
ness  of  blackness"  his  soul  sank  deep  into  itself,  and  he  seems 
to  have  awakened  to  recognise  in  the  ship  that  he  drowsily 
steered,  the  material  counterpart  of  the  darkest  mysteries  of 
his  own  soul.  It  was  then  that  he  awoke  to  be  "horribly  con 
scious"  that  "whatever  swift  rushing  thing  I  stood  on  was  not 
so  much  bound  to  any  haven  ahead  as  rushing  from  all  havens 
astern."  And  in  reflecting  upon  that  insight  Melville  plunges 
into  the  lowest  abyss  of  disenchantment.  "The  truest  of  men 
was  the  Man  of  Sorrows,"  he  says,  "and  the  truest  of  all  books 
is  Solomon's,  and  Ecclesiastes  is  the  fine  hammered  steel  of 
woe.  All  is  vanity.  ALL  ...  He  who  .  .  .  calls  Cowper, 
Young,  Pascal,  Rousseau,  poor  devils  all  of  sick  men;  and 


152  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

throughout  a  care-free  lifetime  swears  by  Rabelais  as  passing 
wise,  and  therefore  jolly; — not  that  man  is  fitted  to  sit  down 
on  tombstones,  and  break  the  green  damp  mould  with  unfath- 
omably  wondrous  Solomon." 

The  greatest  of  all  dreamers  conquer  their  dreams;  others, 
who  are  great,  but  not  of  the  greatest,  are  mastered  by  them, 
and  Melville  was  one  of  these.  There  is  a  passage  in  the  works 
of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  that  Melville  may  well  have  pondered 
when  he  awoke  at  the  helm  of  the  Acushnet  after  looking  too 
long  into  the  glare  of  the  fire :  "There  are  moments  when,  even 
to  the  sober  eye  of  reason,  the  world  of  our  sad  humanity  may 
assume  the  semblance  of  a  hell;  but  the  imagination  of  man  is 
no  Carathes  to  explore  with  impunity  its  every  cavern.  All  the 
grim  legion  of  sepulchral  terrors  cannot  be  regarded  as  alto 
gether  fanciful;  but,  like  the  demons  in  whose  company 
Afrasiab  made  his  voyage  down  the  Oxus,  they  must  sleep  or 
they  will  devour  us — they  must  be  suffered  to  slumber  or  we 
perish.'* 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LEVIATHAN 

"At  the  battle  of  Breviex  in  Flanders,  my  glorious  old  gossiping  an 
cestor  Froissart  informs  me,  ten  good  knights,  being  suddenly  unhorsed, 
fell  stiff  and  powerless  to  the  plain,  fatally  encumbered  by  their  armour. 
Whereupon  the  rascally  burglarious  peasants,  their  foes,  fell  to  picking 
their  visors;  as  burglars,  locks;  as  oystermen  oysters;  to  get  at  their 
lives.  But  all  to  no  purpose.  And  at  last  they  were  fain  to  ask  aid  of 
a  blacksmith ;  and  not  till  then  were  the  inmates  of  the  armour  despatched. 
Days  of  chivalry  these,  when  gallant  chevaliers  died  chivalric  deaths! 
Yes,  they  were  glorious  times.  But  no  sensible  man,  given  to  quiet 
domestic  delights,  would  exchange  his  warm  fireside  and  muffins,  for  a 
heroic  bivouac,  in  a  wild  beechen  wood,  of  a  raw  gusty  morning  in 
Normandy ;  every  knight  blowing  his  steel-gloved  fingers,  and  vainly 
striving  to  cool  his  cold  coffee  in  his  helmet." 

HERMAN  MELVILLE:  Mardi. 

IT  was  the  same  Edmund  Burke  who  movingly  mourned  the 
departure  of  the  epic  virtues  of  chivalry,  who  in  swift  gener 
alities  celebrated  the  heroic  enterprise  of  the  hunters  of  levia 
than.  But  Burke  viewed  both  whaling  and  knight-errantry 
from  a  safe  remove  of  time  or  place,  and  the  crude  every 
day  realities  of  each  he  smothered  beneath  billows  of  gorgeous 
generalisation.  Burke  offers  a  notable  instance  wherein  ro 
mance  and  rhetoric  conspired  to  glorify  two  human  activities 
that  are  glorious  only  in  expurgation.  Piracy  is  picturesque 
in  its  extinction,  and  to  the  snugly  domesticated  imagination 
there  is  both  virtue  and  charm  in  cut-throats  and  highwaymen. 
Even  the  perennial  newspaper  accounts  of  massacre  and  rape 
doubtless  serve  to  keep  sweet  the  blood  of  many  a  benevolent 
pew-holder.  The  incorrigible  tendency  of  the  imagination  to 
extract  sweet  from  the  bitter,  honey  from  the  carcass  of  the 
lion,  makes  an  intimate  consideration  of  the  filthy  soil  from 
which  some  of  its  choicest  illusions  spring,  downright  repug 
nant  to  wholesomemindedness.  Intimately  considered,  both 
whaling  and  knight-errantry  were  shabby  forms  of  the  butch 
ering  business.  Their  virtues  were  but  the  nobler  vices  of 
barbarism:  vices  that  take  on  a  semblance  of  nobility  only 

153 


154  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

when  measured  against  the  deadly  virtues  of  emasculated  right 
eousness.  In  flight  from  the  deadly  virtues,  Melville  was  pre 
cipitated  into  the  reeking  barbarism  of  the  forecastle  of  a 
whaling  ship.  Whaling  he  applied  as  a  counter-irritant  to 
New  England  decorum,  and  he  seems  to  have  smarted  much 
during  the  application.  He  was  blessed  with  a  high  degree  of 
the  resilience  of  youthful  animal  vigour,  it  is  true;  and  there 
is  solace  for  all  suffering,  the  godly  tell  us — omitting  the  un 
godly  solaces  of  madness  and  suicide.  It  will  be  seen  that 
whaling  prompted  Melville  to  extreme  measures.  The  full 
hideousness  of  his  life  on  board  the  Acushnet  has  not  yet 
transpired. 

The  chief  whaling  communities — those  of  Nantucket  and 
Buzzard's  Bay — were  originally  settled  by  Quakers.  The 
inhabitants  of  these  districts  in  general  retained  in  an  uncom 
mon  measure  throughout  the  golden  age  of  whaling,  the  pecu 
liarities  of  the  Quaker.  Never  perhaps  in  the  history  of  the 
world  has  there  been  mated  two  aspects  of  life  more  humor 
ously  incompatible  than  whale-hunting  and  Quakerism.  This 
mating  produced,  however,  a  race  of  the  most  sanguinary  of 
all  sailors;  a  race  of  fighting  Quakers:  in  Melville's  phrase, 
"Quakers  with  a  vengeance."  Though  refusing  from  conscien 
tious  scruples  to  bear  arms  against  land  invaders,  yet  these 
same  Quakers  inimitably  invaded  the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific ; 
and  though  sworn  foes  to  human  bloodshed,  yet  did  they,  in 
their  straight-bodied  coats,  spill  tons  and  tons  of  leviathan 
gore.  And  so,  as  Melville  goes  on  to  point  out,  "there  are 
instances  among  them  of  men  who,  named  with  Scripture 
names,  and  in  childhood  naturally  imbibing  the  stately  dramatic 
thee  and  thou  of  the  Quaker  idiom ;  still,  from  the  audacious, 
daring,  and  boundless  adventure  of  their  subsequent  lives, 
strangely  blend  with  these  unoutgrown  peculiarities,  a  thou 
sand  bold  dashes  of  character,  not  unworthy  a  Scandinavian 
sea-king,  or  a  poetical  Pagan  Roman." 

The  two  old  Quaker  captains  of  Moby-Dick,  Bildad  and 
Peleg,  are  typical  of  the  race  that  made  Nantucket  and  New 
Bedford  the  greatest  whaling  ports  in  all  history.  Peleg  sig 
nificantly  divides  all  good  men  into  two  inclusive  categories: 


LEVIATHAN  155 

"pious  good  men,  like  Bildad,"  and  "swearing  good  men — 
something  like  me."  The  "swearing  good  men,"  Melville 
would  seem  to  imply,  in  sacrificing  piety  to  humanity,  while 
standing  lower  in  the  eyes  of  God,  stood  higher  in  the  hearts 
of  their  crew.  Though  Bildad  never  swore  at  his  men,  so 
Melville  remarks,  "he  somehow  got  an  inordinate  quantity 
of  cruel,  unmitigated  hard  work  out  of  them." 

Typical  of  the  cast  of  mind  of  the  whaling  Quaker  is  Cap 
tain  Bildad' s  farewell  to  ship's  company  on  board  the  ship  in 
which  he  was  chief  owner :  "God  bless  ye,  and  have  ye  in  His 
holy  keeping.  Be  careful  in  the  hunt,  ye  mates.  Don't  stave 
the  boats  needlessly,  ye  harpooners;  good  white  cedar  plank 
is  raised  full  three  per  cent,  within  the  year.  Don't  forget 
your  prayers,  either.  Don't  whale  it  too  much  a'  Lord's  day, 
men;  but  don't  miss  a  fair  chance  either;  that's  rejecting 
Heaven's  good  gifts.  Have  an  eye  to  the  molasses  tierce, 
Mr.  Stubb;  it  was  a  little  leaky,  I  thought.  If  ye  touch 
at  the  islands,  Mr.  Flask,  beware  of  fornication.  Good-bye, 
good-bye !" 

The  old  log-books  most  frequently  begin:  "A  journal  of 
an  intended  voyage  from  Nantucket  by  God's  permission." 
And  typical  is  the  closing  sentence  of  the  entry  in  George 
Gardener's  journal  for  Saturday,  January  21,  1757:  "So  no 
more  at  Present  all  being  in  health  by  the  Blessing  of  God  but 
no  whale  yet." 

At  first,  the  New  England  vessels  were  manned  almost  en 
tirely  by  American-born  seamen,  including  a  certain  propor 
tion  of  Indians  and  coast-bred  negroes.  But  as  the  fishery 
grew,  and  the  number  of  vessels  increased,  the  supply  of  hands 
became  inadequate.  Macy  says  that  as  early  as  about  1750 
the  Nantucket  fishery  had  attained  such  proportions  that  it 
was  necessary  to  secure  men  from  Cape  Cod  and  Long  Island 
to  man  the  vessels.  Goode  says :  "Captain  Isaiah  West,  now 
eighty  years  of  age  (in  1880),  tells  me  that  he  remembers 
when  he  picked  his  crew  within  a  radius  of  sixty  miles  of  New 
Bedford;  oftentimes  he  was  acquainted,  either  personally  or 
through  report,  with  the  social  standing  or  business  qualifica 
tions  of  every  man  on  his  vessel ;  and  also  that  he  remembers 


156  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

the  first  foreigner — an  Irishman — that  shipped  with  him,  the 
circumstance  being  commented  on  at  that  time  as  a  remark 
able  one."  Time  was,  however,  when  it  was  easy  to  gather 
at  New  Bedford  or  New  London  a  prime  crew  of  tall  and 
stalwart  lads  from  the  fishing  coast  and  from  the  farms  of  the 
interior  of  New  England.  Maine  furnished  a  great  many 
whalemen,  and  for  a  long  time  the  romance  of  whaling  held 
out  a  powerful  fascination  for  adventurous  farmer  boys  of 
New  Hampshire,  Vermont,  and  Upper  New  York.  During 
Melville's  time  the  farms  of  New  England  still  supplied  a  con 
tingent  of  whalers.  In  writing  of  New  Bedford  he  says: 
"There  weekly  arrive  in  this  town  scores  of  green  Vermonters 
and  New  Hampshire  men,  all  athirst  for  gain  and  glory  in 
the  fishery.  They  are  mostly  young,  of  stalwart  frames; 
fellows  who  have  felled  forests,  and  now  seek  to  drop  the 
axe  and  snatch  the  whale-lance.  Many  are  as  green  as  the 
Green  Mountains  whence  they  came.  In  some  things  you 
would  think  them  but  a  few  hours  old.  Look  there !  that  chap 
strutting  round  the  corner.  He  wears  a  beaver  hat  and  swal 
low-tailed  coat,  girdled  with  a  sailor-belt  and  a  sheath-knife. 
Here  comes  another  with  a  sou'-wester  and  a  bombazine  cloak/' 
Of  course,  these  farm-boys  were  of  the  verdant  innocence  Mel 
ville  paints  them  when  they  signed  the  ship's  papers,  not  know 
ing  a  harpoon  from  a  handspike.  It  is  a  curious  paradox  in 
the  history  of  whaling, — a  paradox  best  elaborated  by  Ver- 
rill, — that  the  ship's  crew  were  almost  never  sailors.  The 
captain,  of  course,  the  officers  and  the  harpooners  were  usu 
ally  skilled  and  efficient  hands.  But  so  filthy  was  the  work 
aboard  the  whaler,  and  so  perilous;  so  brutal  the  treatment 
of  the  crew,  and  so  hazardous  the  actual  earnings,  that  com 
petent  deep-water  sailors  stuck  to  the  navy  or  the  merchant 
marine.  When  Melville  shipped  from  Honolulu  as  an  "ordi 
nary  seaman  in  the  United  States  Navy,"  he  soon  found  occa 
sion  "to  offer  up  thanksgiving  that  in  no  evil  hour  had  I 
divulged  the  fact  of  having  served  in  a  whaler;  for  having 
previously  marked  the  prevailing  prejudice  of  men-of-war's- 
men  to  that  much  maligned  class  of  mariners,  I  had  wisely 
held  my  peace  concerning  stove  boats  on  the  coast  of  Japan," 


LEVIATHAN  157 

And  in  Redburn  he  says  "that  merchant  seamen  generally 
affect  a  certain  superiority  to  'blubber-boilers/  as  they  con 
temptuously  style  those  who  hunt  the  leviathan." 

When  the  farmer  lads  came  down  to  the  sea  no  more  in  ade 
quate  numbers,  the  whaleships  were  forced  to  fill  their  crews 
far  from  home,  and  to  take  what  material  they  could  get. 
Shipping  offices,  with  headquarters  at  the  whaling  ports,  em 
ployed  agents  scattered  here  and  there  in  the  principal  cities, 
especially  in  the  Middle  West  and  the  interior  of  New  Eng 
land.  These  agents  received  ten  dollars  for  each  man  they 
secured  for  the  ship's  crew.  Besides  this,  each  agent  was 
paid  for  the  incidental  expenses  of  transportation,  board,  and 
outfit  of  every  man  shipped.  By  means  of  lurid  advertise 
ments  and  circulars,  these  agents  with  emancipated  conscience, 
made  glowing  promises  to  the  desperate  and  the  ignorant. 
Each  prospective  whaleman  was  promised  a  "lay"  of  the  ship's 
catch.  For  in  the  whaling  business,  no  set  wages  were  paid. 
All  hands,  including  the  captain,  received  certain  shares  of 
the  profits  called  "lays."  The  size  of  the  lay  was  propor 
tioned  to  the  degree  of  importance  pertaining  to  the  respective 
duties  of  the  ship's  company.  The  captain  usually  received  a 
lay  of  from  one-twelfth  to  one-eighteenth;  green  hands  about 
the  one-hundred-and-fiftieth.  What  lay  Melville  received  is 
not  known.  Bildad  is  inclined  to  think  that  the  seven  hun 
dred  and  seventy-seventh  lay  was  not  too  much  for  Ishmael ; 
but  Bildad  was  a  "pious  good  man."  Peleg,  the  "swearing 
good  man,"  after  a  volcanic  eruption  with  Bildad,  puts  Ishmael 
down  for  the  three  hundredth  lay.  Though  this  may  exem 
plify  the  relation  that,  in  Melville's  mind,  existed  between  pro 
fanity  and  kindness,  it  tells  us,  unfortunately,  nothing  of  the 
prospective  earnings  of  Melville's  whaling.  Of  one  thing, 
however,  we  can  be  fairly  certain :  Melville  did  not  drive  a 
shrewd  and  highly  profitable  bargain.  The  details  of  his 
life  bear  out  his  boast :  "I  am  one  of  those  that  never  take  on 
about  princely  fortunes,  and  am  quite  content  if  the  world 
is  ready  to  board  and  lodge  me,  while  I  put  up  at  the  grim  sign 
of  the  Thunder  Cloud." 

Each  prospective  whaler,   besides  being  assured  a  stated 


158  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

fraction  of  the  ship's  earnings,  was  by  the  agents  promised 
an  advance  of  seventy-five  dollars,  an  outfit  of  clothes,  as  well 
as  board  and  lodging  until  aboard  ship.  From  this  imaginary 
seventy-five  dollars  were  deducted  all  the  expenses  which  the 
agent  defrayed,  as  well  as  the  ten  dollars  head  payment.  By 
a  shameless  perversion  of  exaggerated  charges,  a  really  com 
petent  outfitter  managed  to  ship  his  embryo  whalemen  with 
out  a  cent  of  the  promised  advance.  The  agent  who  shipped 
J.  Ross  Browne  and  his  unfortunate  friend,  was  a  suave 
gentleman  of  easy  promises.  "Whaling,  gentlemen,  is  toler 
ably  hard  at  first,"  Browne  makes  him  say,  "but  it's  the  finest 
business  in  the  world  for  enterprising  young  men.  Vigilance 
and  activity  will  insure  you  rapid  promotion.  I  haven't  the 
least  doubt  but  you'll  come  home  boat  steerers.  I  sent  off  six 
college  students  a  few  days  ago,  and  a  poor  fellow  who  had 
been  flogged  away  from  home  by  a  vicious  wife.  A  whaler, 
gentlemen,  is  a  place  of  refuge  for  the  distressed  and  perse 
cuted,  a  school  for  the  dissipated,  an  asylum  for  the  needy! 
There's  nothing  like  it.  You  can  see  the  world ;  you  can  see 
something  of  life." 

The  first  half  of  one  of  the  truest  and  most  popular  of  whal 
ing  chanteys,  a  lyric  which  must  have  been  sung  with  heart 
felt  conviction  by  thousands  of  whalemen,  runs: 


Twas  advertised  in  Boston, 
New  York  and  Buffalo, 

Five  hundred  brave  Americans 
A-whaling  for  to  go. 

They  send  you  to  New  Bedford, 
The  famous  whaling  port ; 

They  send  you  to  a  shark's  store 
And  board  and  fit  you  out. 


They  send  you  to  a  boarding-house 

For  a  tirre  to  dwell. 
The  thieves  there,  they  are  thicker 

Than  the  other  side  of  Hell. 


LEVIATHAN  159 

They  tell  you  of  the  whaling  ships 

A-going  in  and  out. 
They  swear  you'll  make  your  fortune 

Before  you're  five  months  out. 


The  second  half  of  this  ballad  celebrates  the  hardships  of 
life  aboard  ship:  the  poor  food  and  the  brutality  of  the  officers. 
With  this  side  of  whaling  we  know  that  Melville  was  familiar. 
But  of  the  usual  preliminaries  of  whaling  recounted  by  Browne 
and  summarised  in  the  chantey,  Melville  says  not  a  word, 
either  in  Moby-Dick  or  elsewhere.  Nor  does  tradition  or  his 
tory  supplement  this  autobiographical  silence.  On  this  point 
we  know  nothing.  Surely  it  would  be  intensely  interesting 
to  know  how  far  egotism  conspired  with  art  in  guiding  Mel 
ville  in  the  writing  of  the  masterful  beginning  of  Moby-Dick. 

No  matter  by  what  process  Melville  found  his  way  to  the 
Acushnet,  the  whaling  fleet  was,  indeed,  at  the  time  of  his 
addition  to  it,  "a  place  of  refuge  for  the  distressed  and  perse 
cuted,  a  school  for  the  dissipated,  an  asylum  for  the  needy." 
J.  Ross  Browne  was  warned  before  his  sailing  that  New  Bed 
ford  "was  the  sink-hole  of  iniquity;  that  the  fitters  were  all 
blood-suckers,  the  owners  cheats,  and  the  captains  tyrants." 

Though  the  arraignment  was  incautiously  comprehensive, 
Browne  confesses  to  have  looked  back  upon  it  as  a  sound 
warning.  The  boasted  advantages  of  whaling  were  not  self 
ishly  withheld  from  any  man,  no  matter  what  the  race,  or  the 
complexion  of  his  hide  or  his  morals.  The  Spanish,  Portu 
guese,  Dutch,  Swedish,  Norwegian,  English,  Scotch,  Irish, — 
in  fact,  men  of  almost  every  country  of  Europe,  and  this  with 
no  jealous  discrimination  against  Asia,  Africa,  or  the  Islands 
of  the  Pacific, — were  drawn  upon  by  the  whale  fleet  during  the 
days  of  its  greatest  prosperity.  "And  had  I  not  been,  from  my 
birth,  as  it  were,  a  cosmopolite,"  Melville  remarks  parentheti 
cally  in  Redburn.  It  would  have  been  difficult  for  him  to  find 
a  more  promising  field  for  the  exercise  of  this  inherited  char 
acteristic,  than  was  whaling  in  1841 :  and  this,  indeed,  with 
out  the  nuisance  of  leaving  New  Bedford.  "In  thoroughfares 
nigh  the  docks,"  he  says,  "any  considerable  seaport  will  fre- 


160  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

quently  offer  to  view  the  queerest  nondescripts  from  foreign 
ports.  Even  in  Broadway  and  Chestnut  streets,  Mediterranean 
mariners  will  sometimes  jostle  the  affrighted  ladies.  Regent 
street  is  not  unknown  to  Lascars  and  Malays;  and  in  Bom 
bay,  in  the  Apollo  Green,  live  Yankees  have  often  scared  the 
natives.  But  New  Bedford  beats  all  Water  street  and  Wap- 
ping.  In  these  last-mentioned  haunts  you  see  only  sailors; 
but  in  New  Bedford,  actual  cannibals  stand  chatting  at  street 
corners;  savages  outright;  many  of  whom  yet  carry  on  their 
bones  unholy  flesh.  It  makes  a  stranger  stare."  It  will  be 
remembered  that  Ishmael  spends  his  first  night  in  New  Bed 
ford  in  bed  with  one  of  these  very  cannibals;  and  on  the  fol 
lowing  morning,  in  a  spirit  of  amiable  and  transcendent  char 
ity,,  goes  down  on  his  knees  with  his  tattooed  bed-fellow  be 
fore  a  portable  wooden  deity:  an  experience  fantastic  and 
highly  diverting,  nor  at  all  outside  the  bounds  of  possibility. 
It  is  a  fact  to  chasten  the  optimism  of  apostles  of  the  pro 
miscuous  brotherhood  of  man,  that  as  the  whaling  crews  grew 
in  cosmopolitanism,  they  made  no  corresponding  advances 
towards  the  Millennium.  Had  Nantucket  and  New  Bedford 
but  grown  to  the  height  of  their  whaling  activities  in  the 
fourth  century,  they  might  have  sent  enterprising  agents  to 
the  African  desert  to  tempt  ambitious  cenobites  with  offers  of 
undreamed-of  luxuries  of  mortification.  These  holy  men 
might  have  worked  miracles  in  whaling,  and  transformed  the 
watery  wilderness  of  the  Pacific  into  a  floating  City  of  God. 
But  in  the  nineteenth  century  of  grace,  the  kennel-like  fore 
castle  of  the  whaler  was  the  refuge  not  of  the  athletic  saint, 
but  of  the  offscourings  of  all  races,  the  discards  of  humanity, 
and  of  this  fact  there  is  no  lack  of  evidence.  Nor  did  Mel 
ville's  ship-mates,  on  the  whole,  seem  to  have  varied  this  mo 
notony.  There  survives  this  record  in  his  own  hand : 


"What  became  of  the  ship's  company  on  the  whale-ship 
'Acushnet,'  according  to  Hubbard  who  came  back  home  in  her 
(more  than  a  four  years'  voyage)  and  visited  me  in  Pitts  field 
in  1850. 


SPERM    WHALING.       THE    CAPTURE. 

Drawing  by  A.  Van  Beest,  R.  Swain  Gifford  and  Benj.  Russell,  1850. 


ONE   OF  SIX   WHALING   PRINTS.      LONDON,    1750. 


LEVIATHAN  161 

"Captain  Pease — returned  &  lives  in  asylum  at  the  Vine 
yard. 

"Raymond,  1st  Mate — had  a  fight  with  the  Captain  &  went 
ashore  at  Payta. 

"Hall,  2nd  Mate — came  home  &  went  to  California. 

"3rd  Mate,  Portuguese,  went  ashore  at  Payta. 

"Boatswain,  either  ran  away  or  killed  at  Ropo  one  of  the 
Marquesas. 

Smith,  went  ashore  at  Santa,  coast  of  Peru,  afterwards 
committed  suicide  at  Mobile. 

"Barney,  boatswain,  came  home. 

"Carpenter,  went  ashore  at  Mowee  half  dead  with  disreputa 
ble  disease. 

"The  Czar. 

"Tom  John-son,  black,  went  ashore  at  Mowee,  half  d.ead 
(ditto)  &  died  at  the  hospital. 

"Reed,  mulatto — came  home. 

"Blacksmith,  ran  away  at  San  Francisco. 

"Blackus,  little  black,  ditto. 

"Bill  Green,  after  several  attempts  to  run  away,  came  home 
in  the  end. 

"The  Irishman,  ran  away,  coast  of  Colombia. 

"Wright,  went  ashore  half  dead  at  the  Marquesas. 

"Jack  Adams  and  Jo  Portuguese  came  home. 

"The  Old  Cook,  came  home. 

"Haynes,  ran  away  aboard  of  a  Sidney  ship. 

"Little  Jack,  came  home. 

"Grant,  young  fellow,  went  ashore  half  dead,  spitting  blood, 
at  Oahu. 

"Murray,  went  ashore,  shunning  fight  at  Rio  Janeiro. 

"The  Cooper,  came  home." 

Of  the  twenty-seven  men  who  went  out  with  the  ship,  only 
the  Captain,  the  Second  Mate,  a  Boatswain,  the  Cook,  the 
Cooper  and  six  of  the  mongrel  crew  (one  of  which  made  sev 
eral  futile  attempts  to  escape)  came  back  home  with  her.  The 
First  Mate  had  a  fight  with  the  Captain  and  left  the  ship;  the 
Carpenter  and  four  of  the  crew  went  ashore  to  die,  two  at 


162  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

least  with  venereal  diseases,  another  went  ashore  spitting  blood, 
another  to  commit  suicide. 

With  this  company  Melville  was  intimately  imprisoned  on 
board  the  Acushnet  for  fifteen  months.  Of  the  everyday  life 
of  Melville  in  this  community  we  know  little  enough.  In 
Moby-Dick  Melville  has  left  voluminous  accounts  of  the  typi 
cal  occupations  of  whaling — but  beyond  this  nothing  certainly 
to  be  identified  as  derived  from  life  on  the  Acushnet.  The 
ship's  company  on  board  the  Pequod,  in  so  far  as  is  known, 
belong  as  purely  to  romance  as  characters  of  fiction  can.  It 
doubtless  abbreviates  the  responsibilities  of  the  custodians  of 
public  morals,  that  the  staple  of  conversation  on  board  the 
Acushnet,  the  scenes  enacted  in  the  forecastle  and  elsewhere 
in  the  ship,  shall  probably  never  be  known.  In  Typee  Melville 
says  of  the  crew  of  the  Acushnet,  however :  "With  a  very  few 
exceptions,  our  crew  was  composed  of  a  parcel  of  dastardly 
and  mean-spirited  wretches,  divided  among  themselves,  and 
only  united  in  enduring  without  resistance  the  unmitigated 
tyranny  of  the  captain." 

Of  the  "very  few  exceptions"  that  Melville  spares  the  tribute 
of  contemptuous  damnation,  one  alone  does  he  single  out  for 
portraiture.  "He  was  a  young  fellow  about  my  own  age," 
says  Melville  in  Typee,  of  a  seventeen-year-old  shipmate,  "for 
whom  I  had  all  along  entertained  a  great  regard ;  and  Toby, 
such  was  the  name  by  which  he  went  among  us,  for  his  real 
name  he  would  never  tell  us,  was  every  way  worthy  of  it.  He 
was  active,  ready,  and  obliging,  of  dauntless  courage,  and  sin 
gularly  open  and  fearless  in  the  expression  of  his  feelings.  I 
had  on  more  than  one  occasion  got  him  out  of  scrapes  into 
which  this  had  led  him ;  and  I  know  not  whether  it  was  from 
this  cause,  or  a  certain  congeniality  of  sentiment  between  us, 
that  he  had  always  shown  a  partiality  for  my  society.  We 
had  battled  out  many  a  long  watch  together,  beguiling  the 
weary  hours  with  chat,  song,  and  story,  mingled  with  a  good 
many  imprecations  upon  the  hard  destiny  it  seemed  our  com 
mon  fortune  to  encounter." 

Toby,  like  Melville,  had  evidently  not  been  reared  from 
the  cradle  to  the  life  of  the  forecastle;  a  fact  that,  despite  his 


LEVIATHAN  163 

anxious  effort,  Toby  could  not  entirely  conceal.  "He  was  one 
of  that  class  of  rovers  you  sometimes  meet  at  sea/'  says  Mel 
ville,  "who  never  reveal  their  origin,  never  allude  to  home, 
and  go  rambling  over  the  world  as  if  pursued  by  some  myste 
rious  fate  they  cannot  possibly  elude." 

By  the  spell  of  the  senses,  too,  Melville  was  attracted  to 
Toby.  "For  while  the  greater  part  of  the  crew  were  as  coarse 
in  person  as  in  mind,"  says  Melville,  "Toby  was  endowed  with 
a  remarkably  prepossessing  exterior.  Arrayed  in  his  blue  frock 
and  duck  trousers,  he  was  as  smart  a  looking  sailor  as  ever 
stepped  upon  a  deck;  he  was  singularly  small  and  slightly  made, 
with  great  flexibility  of  limb.  His  naturally  dark  complexion 
had  been  deepened  by  exposure  to  the  tropical  sun,  and  a  mass 
of  jetty  locks  clustered  about  his  temples,  and  threw  a  darker 
shade  into  his  large  black  eyes." 

There  is  preserved  among  Melville's  papers  a  lock  of  hair, 
unusually  fine  and  soft  in  texture,  but  not  so  much  "jetty" 
as  of  a  rich  red-black  chestnut  colour,  and  marked  "a  lock  of 
Toby's  hair,"  and  dated  1846 — the  year  of  the  publication  of 
Typee.  When  Melville  and  Toby  parted  in  the  Marquesas, 
each  came  to  think  that  the  other  had  most  likely  been  eaten 
by  the  cannibals.  Upon  the  publication  of  Typee,  Toby  was 
startled  into  delight  to  learn  of  Melville's  survival  and  to  rub 
his  eyes  at  the  flattering  portrayal  of  himself.  In  a  letter  of 
his  to  Melville,  dated  June  16,  1856,  he  says:  "I  am  still  proud 
of  the  immortality  with  which  you  have  invested  me."  The 
extent  of  the  first  extremity  of  his  pride  is  not  recorded.  But 
in  his  first  flush  of  immortality  he  seems  to  have  sent  Mel 
ville  a  lock  of  his  hair, — an  amiable  vanity,  perhaps,  at  Mel 
ville's  celebration  of  his  personal  charms. 

There  survives  with  the  lock  of  hair  a  daguerreotype  of 
Toby,  also  of  1846.  There  are  also  two  other  photographs: 
the  three  strewn  over  a  period  of  thirty  years.  These  three 
photographs  make  especially  vivid  the  regret  at  the  lack  of 
any  early  picture  of  Melville.  Melville's  likeness  is  preserved 
only  in  bearded  middle-age :  and  such  portraiture  gives  no 
more  idea  of  his  youthful  appearance  than  does  Toby's  washed- 
out  maturity  suggest  his  Byronic  earlier  manner.  There  is 


164  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ever}'  indication  that  Melville  was  a  young  man  of  a  very  con 
spicuous  personal  charm.  From  his  books  one  forms  a  vivid 
image  of  him  in  the  freshness  and  agility  and  full-bloodedness 
of  his  youth.  To  bring  this  face  to  face  with  the  photographs 
of  his  middle  age  is  a  challenge  to  the  loyalty  of  the  imagina 
tion.  All  known  pictures  of  Melville  postdate  his  creative 
period.  They  are  pictures  of  Melville  the  disenchanted  phi 
losopher.  As  pictures  of  Melville  the  adventurer  and  artist, 
they  survive  as  misleading  posthumous  images. 

Of  Toby's  character,  Melville  says  :  "He  was  a  strange  way 
ward  being,  moody,  fitful,  and  melancholy — at  times  almost 
morose.  He  had  a  quick  and  fiery  temper  too,  which,  when 
thoroughly  roused,  transported  him  into  a  state  bordering  on 
delirium.  No  one  ever  saw  Toby  laugh.  I  mean  in  the  hearty 
abandonment  of  broad-mouthed  mirth.  He  did  sometimes 
smile,  it  is  true;  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  dry,  sarcastic 
humour  about  him,  which  told  the  more  from  the  imperturbable 
gravity  of  his  tone  and  manner." 

After  escaping  from  the  Acushnet  with  Melville  into  the 
valley  of  Typee,  Toby  in  course  of  time  found  himself  back 
to  civilisation,  where  the  history  of  his  life  that  he  kept  so 
secret  aboard  the  Acushnet  came  more  fully  to  be  known. 

Toby,  or  Richard  Tobias  Greene,  was,  according  to  notices 
in  Chicago  papers  at  the  time  of  his  death  on  August  24,  1892, 
born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  in  1825.  He  was  as  a  child  brought 
to  America  by  his  father,  who  settled  in  Rochester,  New 
York,  where  Toby  "took  public  school  and  academic  courses." 
Before  he  was  seventeen  he  shipped  aboard  the  Acushnet,  there 
to  fall  in  with  Melville  and  to  accompany  him  into  the  uncor- 
rupted  heart  of  cannibalism.  Toby  returned  to  civilisation  to 
study  law  with  John  C.  Spencer,  "the  noted  attorney  whose 
son  was  executed  for  mutiny  at  Canandaigua,  New  York,"  and 
was,  in  time,  admitted  to  the  bar.  He  relinquished  jurispru 
dence  for  journalism,  and  was  for  some  indefinite  period  editor 
of  the  Buffalo  Courier.  He  restlessly  varied  his  activities  by 
assisting  in  constructing  the  first  telegraph  line  west  of  New 
York  State,  and  opened  the  first  telegraph  office  in  Ohio,  at 
Sandusky.  For  some  years  he  published  the  Sandusky  Mirror. 


"TOBY" 

RICHARD  TOBIAS  GREEXE 


In  1846 


In  1865 


LEVIATHAN  165 

In  1857  he  moved  to  Chicago  and  took  a  place  on  the  Times. 
With  the  Civil  War  he  enlisted  in  the  6th  Infantry  of  Mis 
souri  and  for  three  years  was  "trusted  clerk  at  General  Grant's 
headquarters."  He  was  discharged  June,  1864,  to  enlist  again 
October  19,  1864,  in  the  ist  Illinois  Light  Artillery.  With 
the  end  of  the  war  he  returned  to  Chicago,  ruined  in  health. 
Yet  he  continued  to  exert  himself  as  a  public-minded  citizen, 
and  at  his  funeral  were  "many  fellow  Masons,  comrades  from 
the  G.A.R.  and  others  who  came  to  pay  their  respects  to  the 
late  traveller,  editor  and  soldier." 

After  the  publication  of  Typee  there  were  delighted  ex 
changes  of  recognition  and  gratitude  between  him  and  Mel 
ville.  And  though  these  two  men  grew  further  and  further 
apart  with  years,  there  continued  between  them  an  irregular 
correspondence  and  a  pathetic  loyalty  to  youthful  associations : 
felicitations  that  grew  to  be  as  conscientious  and  hollow  as  the 
ghastly  amiabilities  of  a  college  reunion.  Toby's  son,  born  in 
1854,  he  named  Herman  Melville  Greene  (a  compliment  to 
Melville  adopted  by  some  of  his  later  shipmates  in  the  navy) ; 
and  Melville  presented  his  namesake  with  a  spoon — the  gift  he 
always  made  to  namesakes.  Toby's  nephew  was  named  Rich 
ard  Melville  Hair,  and  another  spoon  was  shipped  west.  In 
1856  Toby  wrote  Melville  he  had  read  Melville's  most  recent 
book,  Piazza  Tales.  Toby's  critical  efforts  exhausted  them 
selves  in  the  comment :  "The  Encantadas  called  up  reminis 
cences  of  the  Acushnet,  and  days  gone  by."  In  1858,  when 
Melville  was  lecturing  about  the  country,  Toby  addressed  a 
dutiful  letter  to  his  "Dear  Old  Shipmate,"  asking  that  Mel 
ville  visit  him  while  in  Cleveland.  If  the  visit  was  ever  made, 
it  has  not  transpired.  In  1860  Toby  wrote  to  Melville: 
"Hope  you"  enjoy  good  health  and  can  yet  stow  away  five 
shares  of  duff!  I  would  be  delighted  to  see  you  and  'freshen 
the  nip'  while  you  would  be  spinning  a  yarn  as  long  as  the 
main-top  bowline."  In  acknowledgment  Melville  during  the 
year  following  sent  Toby  the  gift  of  a  spoon.  In  reply  Toby 
observes :  "My  mind  often  reverts  to  the  many  pleasant  moon 
light  watches  we  passed  together  on  the  deck  of  the  Acushnet 
as  we  whiled  away  the  hours  with  yarn  and  song  till  eight 


166  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

bells."  Even  to  the  third  generation  Toby's  descendants  were 
"proud  of  the  immortality"  with  which  Melville  had  invested 
Toby.  Miss  Agnes  Repplier  has  written  on  The  Perils  of 
Immortality.  There  are  perils,  too,  in  immortalisation. 

But  in  the  days  of  Toby's  unredeemed  immortality  on  board 
the  Acushnet  before  he  joined  the  Masons  and  the  Grand  Army 
of  the  Republic,  Toby  was  to  Melville  a  singularly  grateful 
variation  to  the  filth  and  hideousness  and  brutality  of  the  hu 
man  refuse  with  which  he  cruised  the  high  seas  in  search  of 
oil  and  bone. 

Melville  was  fifteen  months  on  board  the  Acushnet;  and 
for  the  last  six  months  of  this  period  he  was  out  of  sight  of 
land;  cruising  "some  twenty  degrees  to  the  westward  of  the 
Gallipagos" — "cruising  after  the  sperm-whale  under  the 
scorching  sun  of  the  Line,  and  tossed  on  the  billows  of  the 
wide-rolling  Pacific — the  sky  above,  the  sea  around,  and  noth 
ing  else." 

The  ship  itself  was,  at  the  expiration  of  this  period,  de 
plorable  in  appearance.  The  paint  on  her  sides,  burnt  up  by 
the  scorching  sun,  was  puffed  up  and  cracked.  She  trailed 
weeds  after  her;  about  her  stern-piece  an  unsightly  bunch  of 
barnacles  had  formed;  and  every  time  she  rose  on  a  sea,  she 
showed  her  copper  torn  away,  or  hanging  in  jagged  strips. 
The  only  green  thing  in  sight  aboard  her  was  the  green  paint 
on  the  inside  of  the  bulwarks,  and  that,  to  Melville,  was  of  "a 
vile  and  sickly  hue."  The  nearest  suggestion  of  the  grateful 
fragrance  of  the  loamy  earth,  was  the  bark  which  clung  to  the 
wood  used  for  fuel — bark  gnawed  off  and  devoured  by  the 
Captain's  pig — and  the  mouldy  corn  and  the  brackish  water  in 
the  little  trough  before  which  the  solitary  tenant  of  the  chicken- 
coop  stood  "moping  all  day  long  on  that  everlasting  one  leg 
of  his." 

The  usage  on  board  in  Melville's  ship,  as  in  that  of  J.  Ross 
Browne  and  many  another,  had  been  tyrannical  in  the  extreme. 
In  Typee  he  says :  "We  had  left  both  law  and  equity  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Cape."  And  Captain  Pease,  arbitrary  and 
violent,  promptly  replied  to  all  complaints  and  remonstrances 


LEVIATHAN  167 

with  the  butt-end  of  a  hand-spike,  "so  convincingly  admin 
istered  as  effectually  to  silence  the  aggrieved  party." 

"The  sick  had  been  inhumanly  neglected ;  the  provisions  had 
been  doled  out  in  scanty  allowance."  The  provisions  on  board 
the  Acushnet  had  consisted  chiefly  of  "delicate  morsels  of  beef 
and  pork,  cut  on  scientific  principles  from  every  part  of  the 
animal  and  of  all  conceivable  shapes  and  sizes,  carefully  packed 
in  salt  and  stored  away  in  barrels;  affording  a  never-ending 
variety  in  their  different  degrees  of  toughness,  and  in  the  pecu 
liarities  of  their  saline  properties.  Choice  old  water,  too,  two 
pints  of  which  were  allowed  every  day  to  every  soul  on  board; 
together  with  ample  store  of  sea-bread,  previously  reduced  to 
a  state  of  petrification,  with  a  view  to  preserve  it  either  from 
decay  or  consumption  in  the  ordinary  mode,  were  likewise  pro 
vided  for  the  nourishment  and  gastronomic  enjoyment  of  the 
crew."  Captain  Davis,  in  his  Nimrod  of  the  Sea,  suggests 
that  petrification  is  not  the  worst  state  of  ship's-biscuits ;  he 
recounts  how  with  mellower  fare  "epicures  on  board  hesitate 
to  bite  the  ship-bread  in  the  dark,  and  the  custom  is  to  tap 
each  piece  as  you  break  it  off,  to  dislodge  the  large  worms 
that  breed  there." 

The  itinerary  of  this  fifteen  months'  cruise  is  not  known. 
In  Moby-Dick  Melville  says :  "I  stuffed  a  shirt  or  two  into  my 
carpet-bag,  tucked  it  under  my  arm,  and  started  for  Cape 
Horn  and  the  Pacific."  In  Omoo,  Melville  speaks  of  "an  old 
man-of-war' s-man  whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  at  Rio  de 
Janeiro,  at  which  place  the  ship  touched  in  which  I  sailed  from 
home."  In  White-Jacket  and  Omoo  he  speaks  of  whaling  off 
the  coast  of  Japan.  And  in  Moby-Dick,  in  a  passage  that  reads 
like  an  excerpt  from  the  Book  of  Revelations,  he  indicates  a 
more  frigid  whereabouts:  "I  remember  the  first  albatross  I 
ever  saw.  It  was  during  a  prolonged  gale,  in  waters  hard 
upon  the  Antarctic  seas.  From  my  forenoon  watch  below,  I 
ascended  to  the  overclouded  deck ;  and  there,  dashed  upon  the 
main  hatches,  I  saw  a  regal,  feathery  thing  of  unspotted  white 
ness,  and  with  a  hooked,  Roman  bill  sublime.  At  intervals,  it 
arched  forth  its  vast  archangel  wings,  as  if  to  embrace  some 


168  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

holy  ark.  Wondrous  flutterings  and  throbbings  shook  it. 
Though  bodily  unharmed,  it  uttered  cries,  as  some  king's  ghost 
in  supernatural  distress.  Through  its  inexpressible,  strange 
eyes,  methought  I  peeped  to  secrets  which  took  hold  of  God. 
As  Abraham  before  the  angels,  I  bowed  myself;  the  white 
thing  was  so  white,  its  wings  so  wide,  and  in  those  for  ever 
exiled  waters,  I  had  lost  the  miserable  warping  memories  of 
traditions  and  of  towns.  Long  I  gazed  at  that  prodigy  of 
plumage.  I  cannot  tell,  can  only  hint,  the  things  that  darted 
through  me  then.  But  at  last  I  awoke;  when  the  white  fowl 
flew  to  join  the  wing-folding,  the  invoking,  and  adoring  cheru 
bim  !" 

But  what  waters  the  Acushnet  sailed,  and  what  shores  she 
touched  before  she  dropped  anchor  in  the  Marquesas,  little 
positively  is  known. 

The  last  eighteen  or  twenty  days,  however,  during  which 
time  the  light  trade  winds  silently  swept  the  Acushnet  towards 
the  Marquesas,  were  to  Melville,  when  viewed  in  retrospect, 
"delightful,  lazy,  languid."  Land  was  ahead !  And  with  the 
refreshing  glimpse  of  one  blade  of  grass  in  prospect,  Melville 
and  the  whole  ship's  company  resigned  themselves  to  a  disin 
clination  to  do  anything,  "and  spreading  an  awning  over  the 
forecastle,  slept,  ate,  and  lounged  under  it  the  livelong  day." 
The  promise  of  the  ship's  at  last  breaking  through  the  inexora 
ble  circle  of  the  changeless  horizon  into  the  fragrance  of  firm 
and  loamy  earth,  gave  Melville  an  eye  for  the  sea-scape  he  had 
formerly  abhorred.  "The  sky  presented  a  clear  expanse  of 
the  most  delicate  blue,  except  along  the  skirts  of  the  horizon, 
where  you  might  see  a  thin  drapery  of  pale  clouds  which  never 
varied  their  form  or  colour.  The  long,  measured,  dirge-like 
swell  of  the  Pacific  came  rolling  along,  with  its  surface  broken 
by  little  tiny  waves,  sparkling  in  the  sunshine.  Every  now 
and  then  a  shoal  of  flying  fish,  scared  from  the  water  under 
the  bows,  would  leap  into  the  air,  and  fall  the  next  moment  like 
a  shower  of  silver  into  the  sea." 

In  later  years,  memory  treacherously  transformed  this  wa 
tery  environment  upon  which  Melville  and  Toby  had  vented 
their  youthful  and  impotent  imprecations.  From  his  farm  in 


LEVIATHAN  169 

the  Berkshire  Hills,  he  looked  back  regretfully  upon  his  rov- 
ings  over  the  Pacific,  and  by  a  pathetic  fallacy,  convinced 
himself  that  in  them  "the  long  supplication  of  my  youth  was 
answered."  The  spell  of  the  Pacific  descended  upon  him  not 
while  he  was  cruising  the  Pacific,  however,  but  while  he  was 
busy  upon  his  farm  in  Pittsfield,  "building  and  patching  and 
tinkering  away  in  all  directions,"  as  he  described  his  activities 
to  Hawthorne. 

Strangely  jumbled  anticipations  haunted  Melville,  he  says, 
as  drowsing  on  the  silent  deck  of  the  Acmhnet  he  was  being 
borne  towards  land :  towards  the  Marquesas,  one  of  the  least 
known  islands  in  the  Pacific. 

"The  Marquesas!  What  strange  visions  of  outlandish 
things  does  the  very  name  spirit  up !"  exclaims  Melville  in  ex 
cited  prospect.  "Naked  houris — cannibal  banquets — groves  of 
cocoa-nut — coral  reefs — tattooed  chiefs — and  bambo  temples; 
sunny  valleys  planted  with  bread-fruit-trees — carved  canoes 
dancing  on  the  flashing  blue  waters — savage  woodlands 
guarded  by  horrible  idols — heathenish  rites  and  human  sacri 
fices/' 

After  fifteen  months  aboard  the  Acushnet,  Melville  was 
ripe  to  discover  alluring  Edenic  beauties  in  tropical  heathen 
dom.  And  in  the  end,  so  intolerable  was  the  prospect  of 
dragging  out  added  relentless  days  under  the  guardianship  of 
Captain  Pease,  that  as  a  last  extremity,  Melville  preferred  to 
risk  the  fate  of  Captain  Cook,  and  find  a  strolling  cenotaph  in 
the  bellies  of  a  tribe  of  practising  cannibals. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  PACIFIC 

"There  is,  one  knows  not  what  sweet  mystery  about  this  sea,  whose 
gentle  awful  stirrings  seem  to  speak  of  some  hidden  soul  beneath;  like 
those  fabled  undulations  of  the  Ephesian  sod  over  the  buried  Evangelist 
St.  John.  And  meet  it  is,  that  over  these  sea-pastures,  wide-rolling 
watery  prairies  and  Potters'  Fields  of  all  four  continents,  the  waves 
should  rise  and  fall,  and  ebb,  and  flow  unceasingly;  for  here,  millions  of 
mixed  shades  and  shadows,  drowned  dreams,  somnambulisms,  reveries; 
all  that  we  call  lives  and  souls,  lie  dreaming,  dreaming,  still ;  tossing 
like  slumberers  in  their  beds;  the  ever-rolling  waves  but  made  so  by 
their  restlessness." 

— HERMAN  MELVILLE:  Moby-Dick. 

FIRST  sighted  by  Balboa  in  the  year  1513,  and  for  more 
than  two  centuries  regarded  by  the  Spaniards  as  their  own 
possession,  these  midmost  waters  of  the  world  lay  locked  be 
hind  one  difficult  and  dangerous  portal.  During  these  centu 
ries  the  Indian  Ocean  and  the  Atlantic — but  arms  of  the 
Pacific — were  gloomy  with  mysteries.  The  Spanish  sailors 
used  to  chant  a  litany  when  they  saw  St.  Elmo's  Fire  glit 
tering  on  the  mast-head,  and  exorcised  the  demon  of  the  water 
spout  by  elevating  their  swords  in  the  form  of  crosses.  Mer 
maids  still  lived  in  the  tranquil  blue  waters.  The  darkness  of 
the  storm  was  thronged  with  gigantic  shadowy  figures.  The 
pages  of  Purchas  and  Hackluyt  offer  no  lack  of  supernatural 
visitations.  Thus  superstition  joined  with  substantial  danger 
to  guard  the  entrance  to  the  Pacific.  Balboa  himself  was  be 
headed.  Everybody  who  had  to  do  with  Magellan's  first 
passage  into  the  Pacific  came  to  a  bad  end.  The  captain  was 
murdered  in  a  brawl  by  the  natives  of  the  Philippines;  the 
sailor  De  Lepe,  who  first  sighted  the  straits  from  the  mast 
head,  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Algerians,  embraced  the  faith 
of  the  False  Prophet,  and  so  lost  his  everlasting  soul;  Ruy 
Falero  died  raving  mad.  There  was  a  fatality  upon  the  whole 
ship's  company. 

Two  years  before  Magellan's  memorable  voyage,  the  west- 
no 


THE  PACIFIC  171 

ern  boundary  of  the  Pacific  had  been  approached  by  the  Portu 
guese,  Francisco  Serrano  having  discovered  the  Molucca 
Islands  immediately  after  the  conquest  of  Malacca  by  the 
celebrated  Albuquerque.  To  stimulate  exertion,  and  to  pre 
clude  contention  in  the  rivalry  of  dominion  between  Portugal 
and  Spain,  Rodrigo  Borgia,  Pope  Alexander  the  Sixth,  drew 
a  line  down  the  map  through  the  western  limits  of  the  Portu 
guese  province  of  Brazil,  and  allotted  to  Portugal  all  heathen 
lands  she  should  discover  on  the  eastern  half  of  this  line;  to 
Spain,  all  heathen  lands  to  the  west.  So  shadowy  was  the 
knowledge  of  geography  at  the  time  that  this  apportionment  of 
His  Holiness  left  it  doubtful  to  which  hemisphere  the  Moluccas 
belonged ;  and  the  precious  spices  peculiar  to  those  islands  ren 
dered  the  decision  important.  To  ascertain  this  was  the  pur 
pose  of  Magellan's  voyage  across  the  Pacific.  In  this  waste  of 
waters  Magellan  made  two  discoveries :  a  range  of  small  islands 
— including  Guam  among  its  number — which  he  named  La- 
drones,  on  account  of  the  thievish  disposition  of  the  natives; 
and,  at  the  cost  of  his  life,  one  of  the  islands  which  has  since 
been  called  the  Philippines. 

The  voyage  of  Magellan  proved  that  by  the  allotment  of 
Alexander  the  Sixth,  the  Pacific  belonged  to  Spain.  And 
though  for  eight  generations  the  Spaniards  were  hereditary 
lords  of  the  Pacific,  they  soon  grew  greedy  and  jealous  and 
lazy  in  their  splendid  and  undisturbed  monopoly.  Once  or 
twice,  it  is  true,  the  English  devils  took  the  great  galleon :  but 
only  once  or  twice  in  all  these  years.  Lesser  spoils  occasionally 
fell  into  the  hands  of  pirates; for  did  not  Dampier  take  off  Juan 
Fernandez  a  vessel  laden  with  "a  quantity  of  marmalade,  a 
stately  and  handsome  mule,  and  an  immense  wooden  image  of 
the  Virgin  Mary"?  Towns,  too,  were  occasionally  sacked. 
But  the  Spaniards  feared  little  danger,  and  ran  few  risks. 
They  grew  richer  and  lazier,  and  troubled  themselves  little  in 
exploring  the  great  expanse  of  the  Pacific.  They  coasted  the 
Americas  as  far  north  as  California,  which  they  half -suspected 
to  be  an  island.  The  Galapagos,  Juan  Fernandez,  and  Masa- 
fuera  they  knew;  a  part  of  China,  a  part  of  Japan,  the  Philip 
pines,  Celebes,  Timor,  and  the  Ladrones.  Voyages  across  the 


172  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Pacific  between  Manilla  and  Acapulco  were  not  infrequent: 
but  these  voyages  were  sterile  in  discovery.  The  traditional 
route,  once  through  the  Straits  of  Magellan,  was  to  touch  at 
Juan  Fernandez,  coast  South  America,  stand  in  at  Panama, 
turn  out  to  sea  again,  appear  off  Acapulco,  and  then  sail  in  the 
parallel  of  13°  N.  to  the  Ladrones.  The  Abbe  Raynal  states 
that  the  strictest  orders  were  given  by  the  Spanish  Govern 
ment  prohibiting  captains  on  any  account  to  deviate  from  the 
track  laid  down  on  their  charts  during  the  voyage  between  these 
places. 

In  the  darkness  of  this  uncharted  ocean  there  was  believed 
to  stretch  a  great  southern  continent  of  fabulous  wealth  and 
beauty:  the  Terra  Australis  Incognita  that  survived  pertina 
ciously  in  the  popular  imagination  until  the  time  of  Captain 
Cook.  Members  of  the  Royal  Society  had  proved,  beyond 
doubt,  that  the  right  balance  of  the  earth  required  a  southern 
continent ;  geographers  pointed  out  how  Quiros,  Juan  Fernan 
dez  and  Tasman  had  touched  at  various  points  of  this  con 
tinent  Politicians  and  poets  agreed  that  treasures  of  all  kinds 
would  be  found  there, — though  they  varied  in  their  appropria 
tion  of  these  Utopian  resources.  The  controversy  over  the 
existence  of  this  continent  was  vehemently  revived  in  1770  by 
the  appearance  of  Alexander  Dalrymple's  An  Historical  Col 
lection  of  the  Several  Voyages  and  Discoveries  in  the  South 
Pacific  Ocean.  Dalrymple  was  an  ardent  advocate  of  the  re 
ality  of  the  Terra  Australis  Incognita,  and  to  encourage  an 
experimental  confirmation  of  his  faith,  he  dedicated  his  hand 
some  quarto :  'To  the  man  who,  emulous  of  Magellan  and  the 
heroes  of  former  times,  undeterred  by  difficulties  and  unse- 
duced  by  pleasure,  shall  persist  through  every  obstacle,  and  not 
by  chance  but  by  virtue  and  good  conduct  succeed  in  estab 
lishing  an  intercourse  with  a  Southern  Continent."  Dr.  Kip- 
pis,  Captain  Cook's  biographer,  writing  in  1788,  says  he  re 
members  how  Cook's  "imagination  was  captivated  in  the  early 
part  of  his  life  with  the  hypothesis  of  a  southern  continent. 
He  has  often  dwelt  upon  it  with  rapture."  The  year  follow 
ing  Dalrymple's  dedication,  Captain  Cook,  back  from  his  first 
voyage  in  the  Pacific,  was  commissioned  by  the  Earl  of  Sand- 


THE  PACIFIC  173 

wich,  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty,  to  go  out  and  settle  once 
and  for  all  the  mystery  of  the  Southern  Continent.  So  long 
as  this  mystery  remained  unsettled,  the  Pacific  stretched  a 
great  limbo  pregnant  with  the  wildest  fancies.  Between  the 
times  of  Magellan  and  Captain  Cook  there  was  no  certainty 
as  to  what  revelations  it  held  to  disgorge. 

It  was  in  1575  that  Drake  climbed  the  hill  and  the  tree 
upon  its  summit  from  which  could  be  seen  both  the  Atlantic 
and  the  Pacific  oceans.  "Almighty  God,"  this  devout  pirate 
exclaimed,  "of  thy  holiness  give  me  life  and  leave  to  sail  in 
an  English  ship  upon  that  sea!"  God  heard  his  prayer,  and 
blessed  him  with  rich  pirate  spoils  in  the  Pacific,  and  honoured 
him  at  home  by  a  "stately  visit"  from  the  Queen.  Yet  he  died 
at  sea,  and  in  a  leaden  coffin  his  body  was  dropped  into  the 
ocean  slime.  Cavendish  continued  the  British  tradition  of 
lucrative  piracy,  and  in  1586  captured  the  great  plate  galleon. 
This  stimulated  competition  in  high-sea  robbery,  until  in  1594, 
the  capture  of  Sir  Richard  Hawkins  daunted  even  English 
courage. 

In  T595»  Alvaro  Mendana  de  Neyra,  departing  from  the 
beaten  track  across  the  Pacific  on  his  way  to  occupy  the  Solo 
mon  Islands  which  he  had  discovered  twenty-eight  years  earlier, 
chanced  upon  a  new  group  of  islands  which  he  named  Las 
Marquesas  de  Mendoca,  in  honour  of  his  patron  Mendoca, 
Marquis  of  Cenete,  and  viceroy  of  Peru.  He  had  mass  said  on 
shore,  refitted  his  vessels,  planted  a  few  crosses  in  devout  me 
morial,  to  die  before  he  accomplished  the  object  of  his  voyage, 
and  to  leave  the  Marquesas  unmolested  by  visitors  until  vis 
ited  by  Captain  Cook  in  1774.  It  was  in  the  Marquesas,  of 
course,  that  Melville  lived  with  the  cannibals. 

The  seventeenth  century  saw  the  Dutch  upon  the  Pacific. 
During  the  greater  part  of  the  century,  England  was  busy 
with  troublesome  affairs  at  home ;  the  Spanish  were  too  indo 
lent  to  bestir  themselves.  Unmolested  by  competition,  the 
great  Dutch  navigators,  Joris  Spilbergen,  La  Maire,  Schouten, 
and, — most  famous  of  all, — Tasman,  drifted  among  the  islands 
of  the  extreme  southwest.  It  was  not  until  1664  that  the 
French  sailed  upon  the  Pacific.  To  the  end  of  the  century 


174  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

belong  the  buccaneers — Morgan,  Sawkin,  Edward  Cooke, 
Woodes,  Rogers,  Cowley,  Clipperton,  Shelvocke  and  Dampier. 
William  Dampier,  the  greatest  of  these  voyagers,  crossed  the 
Pacific,  missing  all  islands  but  New  Zealand.  He  added  but 
little  to  the  stock  of  knowledge  that  had  been  already  collected 
from  the  narratives  of  Tasman,  or  Schouten.  W.  Clark 
Russell,  in  his  life  of  Dampier,  suggests  it  as  probable  "that 
his  failure,  coupled  with  the  despondent  tone  that  characterises 
his  narrative,  went  far  to  retard  further  explorations  of  the 
South  Seas.  It  was  no  longer  disputed  that  a  vast  body  of 
land  stood  in  those  waters.  All  that  Dampier  said  in  its 
favour  was  theoretical;  all  that  he  had  to  report  as  an  eye 
witness,  all  that  he  could  speak  to  as  facts,  was  extremely 
discouraging."  The  myth  of  the  entrancing  beauties  and 
voluptuous  charms  of  the  South  Seas  owes  nothing  to  Dam- 
pier — except,  perhaps,  a  delayed  inception.  Of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  South  Seas  he  reports  that  they  had  the  most  unpleasant 
looks  and  the  worst  features  of  any  people  he  ever  saw ;  and, 
says  he :  "I  have  seen  a  great  variety  of  Savages."  He  speaks 
of  them  as  "blinking  Creatures/'  with  "black  skins  and  Hair 
frizzled,  tall,  thin,  etc." 

Russell  considered  the  depressing  influence  of  Dampier's 
recorded  adventures  manifested  in  the  direction  given  to  later 
navigators.  Byron  in  1764,  Wallis,  Mouat,  and  Cartaret  in 
1766,  were  despatched  on  voyages  round  the  world  to  search 
the  South  Seas  for  new  lands;  but  only  one  of  them,  Car 
taret,  deviated  from  Dampier's  track,  confining  his  explora 
tions  in  this  way  to  a  glance  at  New  Guinea  and  New  Britain, 
to  the  discovery  of  New  Ireland,  lying  adjacent  to  the  island 
Dampier  sailed  around,  and  to  giving  names  to  the  Solomon 
and  other  groups.  Both  Byron  and  Wallis,  it  is  true,  did  enter 
the  archipelago  of  the  Society  Islands,  Wallis  discovering 
island  after  island,  until  he  reached  Tahiti.  Wallis's  account 
of  Otaheite — on  the  authority  of  the  London  Missionary  So 
ciety  "to  be  pronounced  so  as  to  rhyme  with  the  adjective 
mighty" — and  its  people,  occupies  a  great  part  of  his  narra 
tive.  Though  his  reception  was  not  without  a  show  of  arms 
and  bloodshed,  the  native  women  exerted  themselves  tirelessly 


THE  PACIFIC  175 

to  do  unselfish  penance  for  the  hostile  behaviour  of  the  native 
males.  Oammo,  the  ruling  chief,  retired  from  the  scene,  leav 
ing  the  felicitation  of  the  strangers  in  the  hands  of  his  consort, 
Oberea,  ''whose  whole  character,"  according  to  the  observa 
tions  of  the  London  Missionary  Society,  "for  sensuality  ex 
ceeded  even  the  usual  standard  of  Otaheite."  In  the  estab 
lishment  of  friendship  that  ensued,  Wallis  sent  Lieutenant 
Furneaux  ashore  to  erect  a  British  pennant,  and  in  defiance  of 
the  Pope,  to  take  formal  possession  of  the  island  in  the  name 
of  King  George  the  Third.  Hopelessly  unimpressed  by  the 
whole  transaction,  the  natives  took  down  the  flag  during  the 
night,  and  for  a  long  time  afterwards  the  ruling  chieftains 
wore  it  about  their  persons  as  a  badge  of  royalty.  Oberea's 
hospitality  was  requited  by  a  parting  gift  of  some  turkeys, 
a  gander,  a  goose,  and  a  cat.  Oberea's  live  stock  figures  re 
peatedly  in  the  later  annals  of  Tahiti. 

Early  in  April,  1768,  Tahiti  was  again  visited  by  Euro 
peans.  Louis  de  Bougainville  was  in  Tahiti  only  eight  days. 
But,  if  Bougainville's  account  be  not  the  bravado  of  patriotism, 
during  that  period  his  ship's  company  seem  to  have  outdone 
their  English  predecessors  in  sensuality  and  open  indecency. 
Several  murders  were  committed  more  privately.  And  the 
natives,  with  an  eye  for  the  detection  of  such  matters,  exposed 
among  the  ship's  crew  a  woman  who  had  sailed  from  France 
disguised  in  man's  apparel.  Bougainville  attached  to  himself 
a  native  youth,  Outooroo,  brother  of  a  chieftain;  Outooroo 
accompanied  Bougainville  to  France.  Within  a  few  weeks 
after  sailing  from  Tahiti,  Bougainville  discovered  that  Outoo 
roo,  as  well  as  others  aboard,  were  infected  with  venereal 
disease.  Wallis  very  specifically  asserts  that  his  ship's  com 
pany  were  untouched  by  disreputable  symptoms  six  months 
before,  and  still  longer  after  their  visit  at  Tahiti.  In  any 
event,  before  the  first  year  had  elapsed  after  the  discovery  of 
Tahiti,  its  inhabitants  were  exhibiting  unmistakable  signs  of 
their  contact  with  civilisation.  In  1799,  the  London  Missionary 
Society  gave  warning  to  the  world:  "The  present  existence, 
and  the  general  prevalence  of  the  evil,  is  but  too  obvious;  and 
it  concurs  with  other  dreadful  effects  of  sensuality,  to  threaten 


176  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

the  entire  population  of  this  beautiful  island,  if  it  is  not  sea 
sonably  averted  by  the  happy  influence  of  the  gospel."  The 
steady  extinction  of  the  Polynesian  races  would  seem  to  indi 
cate  that  this  happy  influence  has,  to  date,  not  been  efficacious. 
When  Pope  Alexander  the  Sixth  gave  to  the  indolent  Spanish 
the  heathen  for  inheritance,  His  Holiness  was  being  used  by 
a  mysterious  Providence  as  the  guardian  of  heathendom.  It 
was  not  until  he  had  been  for  over  two  centuries  and  a  half 
in  his  tomb,  that  the  heretical  and  more  enterprising  English 
came  to  dispel  the  Egyptian  darkness  that  hung  protectingly 
over  most  of  the  islands  of  the  Pacific,  and  to  expose  a  com 
petent  barbarism  to  the  devastating  aggressions  of  civilisa 
tion. 

Everybody  knows  how  in  1769  the  Royal  Society,  discov 
ering  that  there  would  happen  a  transit  of  Venus,  and  that  this 
interesting  astronomical  event  would  be  best  observed  from 
some  place  in  the  Pacific,  hit  upon  James  Cook — Byron,  Wal- 
lis  and  Cartaret  all  being  in  the  Pacific  at  the  time — master  in 
the  Royal  Navy,  to  command  the  expedition.  The  Marquesas 
were  chosen  as  the  place  for  the  observation;  but  while  the 
expedition  was  being  fitted  out,  Captain  Wallis  returned  to 
England,  bringing  news  of  the  discovery  of  Tahiti.  So  well 
known  is  the  story  of  Captain  Cook  that  few  can  boast  the 
distinction  of  total  ignorance  of  his  three  voyages  to  the 
Pacific, — the  first  in  command  of  an  astronomical  expedition, 
the  second  in  search  of  a  Southern  Continent,  the  third  in 
quest  of  a  Northwest  Passage;  of  his  discoveries  and  adven 
tures  in  every  conceivable  part  of  the  Pacific;  of  his  repeated 
returns  to  Tahiti ;  of  his  finally  being  killed  on  the  island  called 
by  him  Owhyhee,  murdered  despite  the  fact  that  he  had  shown 
a  power  of  conciliation  granted  to  no  other  navigator  in  these 
seas.  For,  a  long  time  ago,  there  lived,  on  the  island  of 
Hawaii,  Lono  the  swine-god.  He  was  jealous  of  his  wife, 
and  killed  her.  Driven  to  frenzy  by  the  act,  he  went  about 
boxing  and  wrestling  with  every  man  he  met,  crying,  "I  am 
frantic  with  my  great  love."  Then  he  sailed  away  for  a  for 
eign  land,  prophesying  at  his  departure:  "I  shall  return  in 
after  times  on  an  island  bearing  cocoa-nut  trees,  swine,  and 


THE  PACIFIC  177 

dogs/'  When,  after  a  year's  absence,  Cook  returned  to  Ha 
waii,  he  arrived  the  day  after  a  great  battle,  and  the  victorious 
natives  were  absolutely  certain  that  Cook  was  the  great  swine- 
god,  Lono,  who  long  ages  ago  had  departed  mad  with  love, 
now,  to  add  lustre  to  their  triumph,  returned  on  an  island 
bearing  cocoa-nut  trees,  swine,  and  dogs.  This  attribution  of 
deity  was  hardly  complimentary  to  Cook's  crew.  And  in  time 
the  islanders  tired  of  their  enthusiasm  and  the  expense  of 
entertaining  strolling  deities.  After  sixteen  days  of  prodigal 
hospitality,  the  natives  began  stroking  the  sides  and  patting 
the  bellies  of  the  sailors,  telling  them,  partly  by  signs,  partly 
by  words,  it  was  time  to  go.  They  went.  But  a  week  aft 
erwards  the  ship  returned.  There  was  a  quarrel.  Among 
some  people  a  quarrel  leads  to  a  fight.  In  a  fight  somebody 
naturally  gets  killed.  Or,  it  may  have  been, — Walter  Besant 
suggests, — that  perhaps  it  may  have  occurred  to  some  native 
humourist  to  wonder  how  a  god  would  look  and  behave  with 
a  spear  stuck  right  through  him.  Cook  fell  into  the  water, 
and  spoke  no  more. 

In  his  life,  as  in  his  death,  Cook  enjoyed  all  the  successes. 
Boswell  dined  with  him  at  Sir  John  Pringle's  on  April  2, 
1776,  and  reported  the  glowing  event  to  Dr.  Johnson.  A 
snuff-box  was  carved  out  of  the  planks  of  one  of  his  vessels, 
and  presented  to  James  Fenimore  Cooper.  Fanny  Burney 
records  with  pride  her  father's  meeting  the  famous  navigator, 
whom  she  herself  met  in  society  and  in  her  own  home.  Joseph 
Priestly  contemplated  accompanying  Cook  to  the  South  Seas. 
An  artist — W.  Hodges — was  officially  appointed  to  accompany 
him  to  perpetuate  his  exploits  in  oil.  He  read  learned  papers 
before  the  Royal  Society,  for  one  of  which  the  counsel  ad 
judged  him  the  Copley  Gold  Medal.  Six  times  was  his  por 
trait  painted,  and  once  was  it  seriously  proposed  that  Dr. 
Johnson  be  appointed  his  official  biographer.  Not  even  by 
Omai,  a  native  of  Tahiti  that  Captain  Furneaux  brought  to 
England,  was  Captain  Cook's  glory  eclipsed.  And  Omai  was 
received  by  the  King,  was  painted  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
and  was  laden  with  gifts  when  he  was  taken  back  to  Tahiti 
by  Captain  Cook  on  his  third  voyage.  Omai,  too,  attended 


178  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

meetings  of  the  Royal  Society,  and  it  is  to  his  credit  that  he 
behaved  himself  fairly  well.  It  was  regretted  by  the  Directors 
of  the  London  Missionary  Society  that  though  "great  atten 
tion  was  paid  to  him  by  some  of  the  nobility,  it  was  chiefly 
directed  to  his  amusement,  and  tended  rather  to  augment  than 
to  diminish  his  habitual  profligacy/'  In  1785-6,  there  was 
repeatedly  performed  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  a  pantomime 
named  after  him.  The  characters,  besides  Omai,  were  Towha, 
the  Guardian  Genius  of  Omai's  Ancestors;  Otoo,  Father  of 
Omai ;  Harlequin,  Servant  to  Omai.  To  give  a  blend  of  edifi 
cation  to  romance,  the  performance  included,  so  a  surviving 
play-bill  announces,  "a  Procession  exactly  representing  the 
dresses,  weapons  and  manners  of  the  Inhabitants  of  Otaheite, 
New  Zealand,  Tanna,  Marquesas,  Friendly,  Sandwich  and 
Easter  Islands,  and  other  countries  visited  by  Captain  Cook/' 
In  1789,  so  vividly  was  the  tragic  end  of  Captain  Cook  still 
mourned,  that  at  the  Theatre-Royal,  Covent  Garden,  was  pre 
sented  a  spectacular  tribute  posted  as  The  Death  of  Captain. 
It  was  "a  Grand  Serious  Pantomimic  Ballet,  in  Three  Parts, 
as  now  exhibiting  in  Paris  with  uncommon  applause,  with  the 
Original  French  Music,  New  Scenery,  Machinery,  and  other 
Decorations."  This  performance  may  have  been  inspired  by 
an  Ode  on  the  Death  of  Captain  Cook  penned  by  Miss  Seward, 
the  Swan  of  Lichfield :  an  ode  praised  by  her  fellow-townsman, 
Dr.  Johnson.  In  1774  there  appeared  in  London  "An  Epistle 
from  Oberea,  Queen  of  Otaheite,  to  Joseph  Banks,  Esq.,  trans 
lated  by  T.  Q.  Z.,  Esq.,  Professor  of  the  Otaheite  Language 
in  Dublin,  and  of  all  the  Languages  of  the  Undiscovered 
Islands  in  the  South  Seas,  enriched  with  Historical  and  Ex 
planatory  Notes,"  and  so  novel  and  popular  was  the  South 
Sea  manner,  that  its  author  was  mistaken  for  a  wit,  and  his 
efforts  at  humour  repeatedly  and  laboriously  imitated.  As  a 
corrective  to  such  levity,  there  appeared  in  1779  an  effusion  in 
verse,  adorned  with  vignette  depicting  Tahitian  women  danc 
ing,  entitled  The  Injured  Islanders;  or,  The  Influence  of  Art 
upon  the  Happiness  of  Nature.  There  is  no  lack  of  evidence 
to  prove  that  the  exploits  of  Captain  Cook  brought  the  South 
Seas,  and  especially  Tahiti,  into  exuberant  and  irresponsible 


THE  PACIFIC  179 

popularity.  Nor  did  business  enterprise  nap  during  the  festivi 
ties.  Information  which  had  been  received  of  the  great  utility 
of  the  bread-fruit,  induced  the  merchants  and  planters  of  the 
British  West  Indies  to  request  that  means  might  be  used  to 
transplant  it  thither.  For  this  purpose  a  ship  was  benevolently 
commissioned  by  George  the  Third:  the  Bounty,  commanded 
by  Lieutenant  Bligh.  The  voyage  of  the  Bounty  ended  in  a 
horrible  tragedy  and  an  intensely  interesting  romance.  The 
story  of  the  mutiny  of  the  Bounty,  and  its  astonishing  sequels, 
joined  further  to  vitalise  the  interest  in  the  South  Seas.  A 
frigate,  significantly  called  the  Pandora,  was  sent  out  from 
England  to  Tahiti  to  seize  the  Bounty  mutineers.  Though 
the  Pandora  was  despatched  as  a  messenger  of  justice,  the 
usual  course  of  festivity,  amusement  and  debaucheries  was 
uninterrupted  during  the  continuance  of  the  ship  at  Tahiti. 
And  the  year  following,  with  British  doggedness,  Captain 
Bligh  returned  to  accomplish  the  purpose  of  his  former  voyage 
which  had  been  frustrated  by  mutiny.  In  1793,  the  Daedalus, 
Vancouver's  storeship,  stopped  at  Tahiti,  leaving  behind  a 
Swedish  sailor  with  a  taste  for  savagery.  The  same  year  an 
American  whaler,  the  Matilda,  was  wrecked  off  Tahiti,  and 
the  crew,  delighted  at  their  good  fortune,  betrayed  no  inclina 
tion  for  an  immediate  departure. 

But  while  the  frivolous,  the  sentimental,  and  the  ungodly 
were  busy  converting  Tahitian  savagery  into  a  Georgian  idyll, 
the  well-starched  Wesleyan  conscience  crackled  in  horror  at 
the  black  unredemption  of  the  South  Sea  heathen.  "The  dis 
coveries  made  in  the  great  southern  seas  by  the  voyages  under 
taken  at  the  command  of  his  present  majesty,  George  the 
Third,"  says  a  spokesman  for  the  community,  "excited  won 
derful  attention,  and  brought,  as  it  were,  into  light  a  world 
till  then  almost  unknown.  The  perusal  of  the  accounts  of 
these  repeated  voyages  could  not  but  awaken,  in  such  coun 
tries  as  our  own,  various  speculations,  according  as  men  were 
differently  affected.  But  when  these  islands  were  found  to 
produce  little  that  would  excite  the  cupidity  of  ambition,  or 
answer  the  speculations  of  the  interested" — well,  then  it  was 
that  the  protestant  conscience  bestirred  itself,  and  on  Septem- 


180  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

her  25,  1795,  founded  the  London  Missionary  Society.  It 
celebrated  its  first  birthday  by  determining  to  begin  work  with 
the  islands  of  the  southern  ocean,  "as  these,  for  a  long  time 
past,  had  excited  peculiar  attention.  Their  situation  of  mental 
ignorance  and  moral  depravity  strongly  impressed  on  our 
minds  the  obligation  we  lay  under  to  endeavour  to  call  them 
from  darkness  into  marvellous  light.  The  miseries  and  dis 
eases  which  their  intercourse  with  Europeans  had  occasioned 
seemed  to  upbraid  our  neglect  of  repairing,  if  possible,  these 
injuries;  but  above  all,  we  longed  to  send  to  them  the  ever 
lasting  gospel,  the  first  and  most  distinguished  of  blessings 
which  Jehovah  has  bestowed  upon  the  children  of  men." 

A  select  committee  of  ministers,  approved  for  evangelical 
principles  and  ability,  was  appointed  to  examine  the  candi 
dates  for  the  mission — who  applied  in  great  numbers — as  to 
their  views,  capacity,  and  "knowledge  in  the  mystery  of  godli 
ness."  Thirty  missionaries  were  chosen:  four  ministers,  six 
carpenters,  two  shoemakers,  two  bricklayers,  two  tailors  (one 
of  whom,  "late  of  the  royal  artillery"),  two  smiths,  two  weav 
ers,  a  surgeon,  a  hatter,  a  cotton  manufacturer,  a  cabinet 
maker,  a  harness  maker,  a  tinsmith,  a  cooper,  and  a  butcher. 
There  were  three  women  and  three  children  also  in  the  party. 
On  August  10,  1796,  on  the  ship  Duff,  commanded  by  Cap 
tain  Wilson,  who  had  been  wonderfully  converted  to  God,  this 
band,  in  chorus  with  a  hundred  voices,  sang  "Jesus,  at  thy 
command — we  launch  into  the  deep"  as  they  sailed  out  of  Spit- 
head.  The  singing,  it  is  said,  produced  "a  pleasing  and  solemn 
sensation."  On  Sunday,  March  5,  1797,  after  an  uneventful 
voyage,  the  Duff  dropped  anchor  at  Tahiti.  Seventy-four 
canoes  came  out  to  welcome  the  strangers  and  broke  the  Sab 
bath  by  crowding  about  the  decks,  "dancing  and  capering  like 
frantic  persons."  Nor  was  the  first  impression  made  upon 
the  Missionaries  entirely  favourable ;  "their  wild  disorderly  be 
haviour,  strong  smell  of  cocoa-nut  oil,  together  with  the  tricks 
of  the  arreoies,  lessened  the  favourable  impression  we  had 
formed  of  them;  neither  could  we  see  aught  of  that  elegance 
and  beauty  in  their  women  for  which  they  had  been  so  greatly 
celebrated."  Conversation  with  the  natives  was  facilitated 


THE  PACIFIC  181 

by  the  presence  of  two  tattooed  Swedes — one  formerly  of  the 
crew  of  the  Matilda,  the  other  left  by  the  Daedalus.  During 
sermon  and  prayer  the  natives  were  quiet  and  thoughtful, 
"but  when  the  singing  struck  up,  they  seemed  charmed  and 
filled  with  amazement;  sometimes  they  would  talk  and  laugh, 
but  a  nod  of  the  head  brought  them  to  order."  Next  day, — for 
they  arrived  on  the  Sabbath, — some  of  the  missionaries  landed 
and  were  presented  with  the  house  King  Pomare  had  built  for 
Captain  Bligh.  This  important  matter  settled,  the  chief 
thought  it  time  to  enquire  after  entertainment;  "first  sky 
rockets,  next  the  violin  and  dancing,  and  lastly  the  bagpipe." 
Lacking  such  diversions,  the  missionaries  offered  a  few  solos 
on  the  German  flute, — and  "it  plainly  appeared  that  more  lively 
music  would  have  pleased  them  better." 

Domestic  arrangements  established,  to  the  great  diversion  of 
the  natives,  the  missionaries  tried  to  get  some  clothes  on  some 
of  them.  The  queen  had  to  rip  open  the  garments,  it  is  true, 
to  get  into  them;  but  one  Tanno  Manoo,  who  was  given  a 
warm  week-day  dress,  and  a  showy  morning  gown  and  petti 
coat  for  the  Sundays,  "when  dressed,  made  a  very  decent  ap 
pearance  ;  taking  more  pains  to  cover  her  breasts,  and  even  to 
keep  her  feet  from  being  seen,  than  most  of  the  ladies  of 
England  have  of  late  done."  The  natives  were  deeply  per 
plexed  by  the  proprieties  of  the  Missionaries,  and  especially  by 
what  to  them  seemed  the  unnatural  chastity  of  the  men. 

Since  the  Missionaries  had  resolved  to  distribute  their  bless 
ings,  they  sent  a  party  of  brethren  to  make  investigations  on 
the  Marquesas.  The  first  visitors  the  ship  received  from  the 
shore  were  "seven  beautiful  young  women,  swimming  quite 
naked,  except  for  a  few  green  leaves  tied  round  their  middle ; 
nor  did  our  mischievous  goats  even  suffer  them  to  keep  their 
green  leaves,  but  as  they  turned  to  avoid  them  they  were 
attacked  on  each  side  alternately,  and  completely  stripped 
naked."  Such,  too,  was  their  "symmetry  of  features,  that  as 
models  for  the  statuary  and  painter  their  equals  can  seldom  be 
found."  As  they  danced  about  the  deck,  frequently  bursting 
out  into  mad  fits  of  laughter,  or  talking  as  fast  as  their  tongues 
could  go,  surely  they  must  have  convinced  more  than  one  of 


182  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

the  meditative  brethren  of  the  total  depravity  of  man.  Nor 
did  these  shameless  savages  confine  their  excursions  to  the 
decks.  "It  was  not  a  little  affecting  to  see  our  own  seamen 
repairing  the  rigging,  attended  by  a  group  of  the  most  beau 
tiful  females,  who  were  employed  to  pass  the  ball,  or  carry 
the  tar-bucket,  etc. ;  and  this  they  did  with  the  greatest  assidu 
ity,  often  besmearing  themselves  with  the  tar  in  the  execu 
tion  of  their  office.  No  ship's  company,  without  great 
restraints  from  God's  grace,  could  ever  have  resisted  such 
temptations." 

Harris  and  Crook,  two  of  the  brethren,  daring  temptation, 
decided  to  stay  at  the  Marquesas,  and  were  moved  ashore. 
But  before  the  Duff  sailed  back  to  Tahiti,  Harris  was  found 
on  the  shore  about  four  o'clock  one  morning  "in  a  most  pitia 
ble  plight,  and  like  one  out  of  his  senses."  It  appears  that 
the  Marquesan  chief  Tenae,  taking  Crook  upon  an  inland  jaunt, 
had  departed,  conferring  upon  Harris  all  the  privileges  of 
domesticity.  Tenae's  wife,  sharing  her  husband's  ideas  of 
hospitality,  was  troubled  at  Harris'  reserve.  So,  "finding 
herself  treated  with  total  neglect,  became  doubtful  of  his  sex," 
says  the  London  Missionary  Society  in  a  report  dedicated  to 
George  the  Third,  "and  acquainted  some  of  the  other  females 
with  her  suspicion,  who  accordingly  came  in  the  night,  when 
he  slept,  and  satisfied  themselves  concerning  that  point,  but 
not  in  such  a  peaceable  way  but  that  they  awoke  him.  Dis 
covering  so  many  strangers,  he  was  greatly  terrified ;  and,  per 
ceiving  what  they  had  been  doing,  was  determined  to  leave  a 
place  where  the  people  were  so  abandoned  and  given  up  to 
wickedness;  a  cause  which  should  have  excited  a  contrary 
resolution."  Harris  was  forty  years  old  at  the  time,  and  by 
trade  a  cooper. 

Crook,  however,  remained  in  the  Marquesas  for  eighteen 
months,  where,  alone,  he  tried  to  enlighten  and  improve  the 
natives.  The  Marquesas  had  a  bad  reputation  among  whale 
men,  and  though  they  had  been  occasionally  visited  by  enter 
prising  voyagers — by  Fanning,  Krusenstern,  Porter,  and  Finch 
— they  for  long  remained  especially  virulent  in  their  native 
depravity.  It  is  true  that  Crook  returned  after  many  years 


THE  PACIFIC  183 

to  place  among  the  Marquesans  four  converted  natives  from 
the  Society  Islands.  In  1834,  two  missionaries  from  England, 
accompanied  by  Darling  from  Tahiti  and  several  converted 
natives,  recommenced  the  arduous  work  of  evangelising  this 
ferocious  people.  During  four  years  the  faithful  Stallworthy 
patiently  toiled  at  his  station,  when  in  1838  a  French  frigate 
landed  two  Catholic  priests  in  the  very  and  the  only  spot  then 
cultivated  by  an  English  protestant  labourer.  These  fellow- 
workers  in  Christ  competed  for  the  souls  of  heathens.  Though, 
in  1839,  to  even  the  odds,  Stallworthy  received  a  reinforce 
ment  of  one  of  his  English  brethren,  after  two  years  the 
English  missionaries  found  it  impossible  "to  maintain  usefully 
their  ground  against  the  united  influence  of  heathen  barbarism, 
popish  craft,  French  power,  and  French  profligacy."  Thus 
"ravished  from  the  Protestant  charity  that  had  so  long  watched 
for  its  salvation,"  the  Marquesans,  when  discovered  by  Mel 
ville,  were  in  large  part  virgin  in  their  barbarism. 

At  Tahiti,  the  brethren  of  the  London  Missionary  Society 
continued  to  work  unrestingly,  and  against  incredible  discour 
agement.  The  natives  were,  as  Captain  Cook  discovered,  "pro 
digious  expert"  as  thieves.  One  snatcher-up  of  unconsidered 
trifles,  when  by  way  of  punishment  chained  to  a  pillar  with  a 
padlock,  not  only  contrived  to  get  away,  but  to  steal  the  pad 
lock.  Yet,  by  the  representation  of  the  London  Missionary 
Society,  "their  honesty  to  one  another  seems  unimpeachable," 
and  they  cultivated  a  Utopian  sense  of  property:  "They 
have  no  writing  or  records,  but  memory  or  landmarks. 
Every  man  knows  his  own;  and  he  would  be  thought  of 
all  characters-  the  basest,  who  should  attempt  to  infringe  on 
his  neighbour,  or  claim  a  foot  of  land  that  did  not  belong 
to  him,  or  his  adopted  friend."  Indeed,  despite  the  repro 
bation  dealt  out  to  them  in  tracts  compiled  for  Sunday- 
school  edification  (Mrs.  F.  L.  Mortimer's  The  Night  of 
Toil  being  a  typically  diverting  libel),  the  London  Mission 
ary  Society,  in  its  official  reports,  was — paradoxically  enough 
— their  most  convincing  apologist.  The  natural  beauties  of 
their  country  were  again  expatiated  upon  to  the  glory  of 
the  First  Artist.  So  prodigal  was  the  natural  abundance 


184  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

of  Tahiti  that  the  brethren  glorified  it  by  converting  it  into 
a  temptation.  One  of  the  brethren  wrote  in  his  journal : 
"O  Lord,  how  greatly  hast  thou  honoured  me,  that  thousands 
of  thy  dear  children  should  be  praying  for  me,  a  worm! 
Lord,  thou  hast  set  me  in  a  heathen  land,  but  a  land,  if  I  may 
so  speak,  with  milk  and  honey.  O  put  more  grace  and  grati 
tude  into  my  poor  cold  heart,  and  grant  that  I  may  never  with 
Jeshurun  grow  fat  and  kick."  The  natives  themselves  were 
untroubled  by  any  such  compunctions.  "Their  life  is  without 
toil,"  the  brethren  reported,  "and  every  man  is  at  liberty  to  do, 
go  and  act  as  he  pleases,  without  the  distress  of  care  or  appre 
hension  of  want:  and  as  their  leisure  is  great,  their  sports 
and  amusements  are  various."  Their  personal  beauty,  their 
almost  ostentatious  cleanliness,  their  boundless  generosity, 
were  by  the  London  Missionary  Society  insisted  upon.  The 
best  of  them,  however,  lived  "in  a  fearfully  promiscuous  inter 
course,"  and  emulated  the  classical  Greeks  in  infanticide  and 
other  reprehensible  practices.  Yet  do  the  brethren  allow  that 
"in  their  dances  alone  is  immodesty  permitted ;  it  may  be 
affirmed,  they  have  in  many  instances  more  refined  ideas  of 
decency  than  ourselves.  They  say  that  Englishmen  are 
ashamed  of  nothing,  and  that  we  have  led  them  to  public  acts 
of  indecency  never  before  practised  among  them."  But  then, 
as  the  London  Missionary  Society  says  in  another  place: 
"Their  ideas,  no  doubt,  of  shame  and  delicacy  are  very  dif 
ferent  from  ours ;  they  are  not  yet  advanced  to  any  such  state 
of  civilisation  and  refinement."  At  their  departure  from  native 
custom,  however,  they  were  untroubled  by  contrition.  When 
asked  "what  is  the  true  atonement  for  sin?"  they  answered, 
"Hogs  and  pearls."  When  the  pleasant  novelty  of  being 
exhorted  and  preached  to  wore  off,  they  did  not  behave  impec 
cably  during  the  devotions  of  the  brethren.  They  often  cried 
out  "lies"  and  "nonsense"  during  the  sermon.  At  other  times 
they  tried  to  make  each  other  laugh  by  repeating  sentences 
after  the  brethren,  or  by  playing  antics,  and  making  faces. 
Many  of  the  natives  used  to  lie  down  and  sleep  as  soon  as  the 
sermon  began,  while  "others  were  so  trifling  as  to  make  re 
marks  upon  the  missionaries*  clothes,  or  upon  their  appearance. 


"We  are  going  to  church,  you  see;  and  Kanoa, 
my  Hawaiian  associate,  is  blowing  a  shell  to 
call  the  people  to  meeting,  as  we  have  no  bell. 
Kanoa's  wife,  with  one  of  her  children  is  just 
behind  us.  Be  sure  to  look  at  the  king,  son 
of  the  one  who  was  killed,  in  his  long  shirt,  and 
under  his  umbrella.  The  queen  will  come  too, 
for  both  are  very  regular  in  their  attendance; 
and,  what  is  better  still,  we  hope  they  are 
Christians. 

"You  may  say,  perhaps,  that  some  things  in 
this  picture  look  more  like  breaking  the  Sab 
bath  than  keeping  it ;  and  you  are  quite  right. 

"The  woman  whom  you  see  is  a  heathen,  car 
rying  her  husband's  skull  as  she  goes  on  a  visit 
to  some  other  village.  A  party  of  the  natives 
are  pressing  scraped  cocoanuts*  in  an  oil-press, 
to  get  the  oil  to  buy  tobacco  with.  The  dog  is 
one  of  the  many,  as  heathenish  as  their  mas 
ters." 

From  Story  of  the  Morning  Star, 
By  Rev.  Hiram  Bingham. 


EVANGELIZING    POLYNESIA 


THE  PACIFIC  185 

Thus  Satan  filled  their  hearts  with  folly,  lest  they  should  be 
lieve  and  be  saved."  All  the  best  inducements  the  brethren 
could  hold  out  to  tempt  them  into  "the  divine  life"  moved 
them  not.  "You  talk  to  us  of  salvation,  and  we  are  dying," 
they  said;  "we  want  no  other  salvation  than  to  be  cured  of  our 
diseases  and  to  live  here  always,  and  to  eat  and  talk."  So  un- 
appreciative  were  they  of  the  efforts  of  the  brethren  that  they 
explained  the  presence  of  the  missionaries  in  Tahiti  as  growing 
out  of  a  sensible  desire  to  escape  from  the  ugliness  and  worry 
and  brutality  of  European  civilisation.  As  for  the  lacerated 
solicitude  and  strange  unselfishness  of  the  brethren  to  confer 
upon  each  of  them  a  soul  with  all  of  its  pestering  responsibili 
ties  :  that,  they  found  totally  incomprehensible. 

Excluding  all  considerations  of  intellect — in  which  both  the 
Missionaries  and  the  Polynesians  seem  to  have  been  about 
equally  endowed — the  abyss  between  the  brethren  and  the 
heathen  was  the  abyss  that  separated  John  Knox  from  Aristo 
phanes  and  the  Greek  Anthology:  the  abyss  between  the  ani 
mal  integrity  of  classical  antiquity  and  the  Hebraic  heritage  of 
the  agonised  conscience.  Reason  may  pass  back  and  forth 
over  this  chasm :  but  no  man  once  touched  by  the  traditions  of 
Christianity  can  ever  again  sling  his  heart  back  across  the 
abyss.  If  he  attempt  the  feat — as  witness  the  Intimate  Jour 
nals  of  Paul  Gauguin — he  but  adds  corruption  to  crucifixion, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  last  state  of  that  man. 

If  the  fall  from  innocence  was  begun  in  Eden,  it  was  sealed 
beyond  redemption  in  Bethlehem.  For  at  the  time  of  the  incep 
tion  of  Christianity,  the  pagan  world  was  going  to  its  doom, 
and  its  death  agonies  were  frightful  in  the  extreme.  Some 
thing  had  to  be  done  to  save  humanity, — and  something  dras 
tic.  And  humanity — which  was  at  the  same  time  the  priest 
and  the  victim — found  in  the  cross  the  justest  symbol  of  its 
triumph  in  utter  human  defeat.  More  effectively  to  slander 
this  world,  Heaven  was  set  up  in  libellous  contrast;  in  order 
to  heap  debasement  upon  the  flesh,  the  spirit  was  opposed  to 
it  as  an  infinitely  precious  eternal  entity,  tainted  by  contact 
with  its  mortal  habitation.  Blessedness  lay  not  in  harmony, 
but  in  division,  and  utter  confusion  was  mistaken  for  total  do 


186  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

pravity.  "For  the  flesh  lusteth  against  the  spirit,  and  the  spirit 
against  the  flesh :  and  these  are  contrary  the  one  to  the  other : 
so  that  ye  cannot  do  the  things  that  ye  would."  But  these 
things  classical  antiquity  did — being  given  over  to  a  reprobate 
mind,  so  St.  Paul  tells  us.  The  Wesleyan  brethren  found  in 
Polynesia  the  same  untroubled  indulgence  in  "unrighteousness, 
fornication  and  wickedness,"  that  had  so  troubled  St.  Paul. 
But  in  Tahiti  there  were  no  signs  of  the  intellect  that  classical 
antiquity  exhibited  in  the  days  of  its  reprobation.  And  though 
the  Polynesians  seemed  to  have  thriven  on  unrighteousness, 
the  brethren  itched  to  infect  them  with  misgivings,  and  this  in 
a  Holy  Name.  Melville  was  profoundly  stirred  to  loathing  at 
these  efforts :  a  loathing  heightened  by  the  later  contentions  in 
troduced  into  Tahiti  by  the  rival  proselyting  of  French  Catho 
lic  missionaries.  Lost  in  doubt  and  shame  at  such  spectacles, 
in  Clarel  he  thus  invokes  Christ : 

"  By  what  art 

Of  conjuration  might  the  heart 
Of  heavenly  love,  so  sweet,  so  good, 
Corrupt  into  the  creeds  malign 
Begetting  strife's  pernicious  brood, 
Which  claimed  for  patron  thee  divine? 

Anew,  anew, 

For  this  thou  bleedest,  Anguished  Face; 
Yea,  thou  through  ages  to  accrue, 
Shall  the  Medusa  shield  replace: 
In  beauty  and  in  terror  too 
Shall  paralyse  the  nobler  race — 
Smite  or  suspend,  perplex,  deter — 
Tortured,  shall  prove  the  torturer." 

The  brethren  in  Tahiti  were  without  any  of  Melville's  mis 
givings.  Their  faith  was  extraordinary.  No  less  extraordi 
nary  was  the  native  imperviousness  to  salvation.  After  the 
brethren  had  ceased  to  be  an  amusing  novelty  with  gifts  to 
bestow,  the  natives  submitted  them  to  neglect  and  mockery. 
Revolts  against  King  Pomare  and  constant  war  kept  the  breth 
ren  in  peril  of  their  lives  without  releasing  them  to  celestial 
jubilation.  The  Napoleonic  wars  cut  them  off  from  com- 


THE  PACIFIC  187 

munication  with  England.  During  the  first  twelve  years  they 
heard  from  home  only  three  times.  These  days  of  fruitless 
trial  sifted  the  party.  Many  of  the  brethren  seized  any 
opportunity  that  offered  to  sail  away  on  chance  trading  vessels. 
Of  the  seven  who  remained,  two  died.  In  1801  eight  new 
brethren  came  out  to  reinforce  the  number,  then  reduced  to 
four.  In  1804  old  King  Pomare  died,  and  his  son  Oto  became 
King  under  the  title  Pomare  II.  In  the  wars  that  followed, 
the  mission  seemed  broken  up :  their  house  was  burned,  the 
printing  press  destroyed,  and  six  of  the  brethren  removed  from 
Tahiti  to  Huahine.  Two  remained,  however,  to  carry  on  the 
forlorn  hope.  But  after  all  these  years  Pomare's  heart  began 
to  soften.  His  gods  seemed  to  be  standing  him  in  little  stead. 
Defeated  in  battle,  he  escaped  to  Eimeo,  and  invited  the  mis 
sionaries  to  follow  him.  Here  he  ate  a  sacred  turtle,  and  when 
no  harm  came  to  him  he  dared  still  further.  Meanwhile  it  was 
proposed  in  England  that  proselyting  in  Polynesia  be  discon 
tinued,  since  after  sixteen  years  not  one  conversion  had  been 
effected.  But  those  of  undaunted  faith  protested.  The  ship 
bearing  fresh  supplies  and  news  of  the  revived  determination 
of  those  at  home  to  prosecute  the  work  was  met  in  mid-ocean 
with  the  cargo  of  the  rejected  idols  of  the  Tahitians.  In  a 
church  seven  hundred  and  twelve  feet  long,  with  twenty-nine 
doors  and  three  pulpits,  all  paid  for  by  himself, — the  church 
in  which  Melville  witnessed  Sunday  devotion — King  Pomare 
had  himself  moistened  on  the  forehead  with  the  water  of  life. 
Backed  by  their  royal  patron,  the  Missionaries  undertook  to 
convert  Tahiti  into  a  Polynesian  Chautauqua.  As  Mrs.  Helen 
Barrett  Montgomery  says,  in  her  Christus  Redemptor:  "We 
cannot  follow  the  glowing  story  of  how  the  King  had  a  code 
of  laws  made  and  read  it  to  seven  thousand  of  his  people, 
who,  by  solemn  vote,  made  these  the  law  of  the  land."  In 
1839,  Captain  Hervey,  in  command  of  a  whale-ship,  reported 
of  Tahiti :  "It  is  the  most  civilised  place  I  have  been  at  in  the 
South  Seas.  They  have  a  good  code  of  laws  and  no  liquors  are 
allowed  to  be  landed  on  the  island.  It  is  one  of  the  most  grati 
fying  sights  the  eye  can  witness  to  see,  on  Sunday,  in  their 
church,  which  holds  about  four  thousand,  the  Queen  near  the 


188  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

pulpit  with  all  her  subjects  about  her,  decently  apparelled  and 
seemingly  in  pure  devotion."  Three  years  later,  Melville  at 
tended  one  of  these  services,  and  was  less  favourably  im 
pressed. 

In  1823,  the  French  establishment  of  the  GELuvre  de  la  prop 
agation  de  la  Foi  formed  at  Lyons,  and  soon  cast  a  beneficent 
eye  upon  North  and  South  America  and  the  islands  of  Oceania. 
In  1814,  soon  after  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  the  Abbe 
Coudrin  had  founded  the  Society  of  Picpus  "to  promote  the 
revival  of  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  in  France,  and  to  prop 
agate  it  by  missions  among  unbelievers  or  pagans."  This  es 
tablishment  received  Papal  sanction  in  1817,  and  was  placed 
under  "the  special  protection  of  the  Hearts  of  Jesus  and 
Mary."  In  1833,  the  Congregation  of  the  Propaganda,  with 
the  confirmation  of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  confided  to  the 
Society  of  Picpus  the  conversion  of  all  the  islands  of  the 
Pacific  ocean.  Two  apostolic  prefectures  were  established. 
M.  E.  Rouchouse  was  made  bishop  of  Nilolopis,  in  partibus, 
and  apostolic  vicar  of  Eastern  Oceania;  M.  C.  Liansu  was  ap 
pointed  as  his  prefect;  two  priests,  Caret  and  Laval,  and  a 
catechist,  Columban,  or  Murphy,  were  placed  under  his  direc 
tion.  In  May,  1834,  the  Catholic  missionaries  arrived  at  Val 
paraiso,  bound  for  the  South  Seas. 

The  benefits  of  the  True  Faith  were  not  to  advance  into  the 
Pacific  unassisted  by  the  secular  arm.  Two  officers  of  the 
French  Navy,  Vincendon-Dumoulin  and  Desgraz,  in  their  Con- 
siderations  generates  sur  la  Colonisation  Frangaise  dans 
rOceanie  thus  speak  for  the  less  purely  religious  interests  of 
France:  "It  is  impossible  for  a  traveller  who  may  visit  the 
islands  of  the  Pacific,  not  to  speculate  on  the  destiny  of  the 
happy  groups  scattered  over  its  bosom.  The  first  thing  that 
strikes  him  is  the  sight  of  men,  consecrated  to  a  religious  work, 
meddling  with  the  temporal  affairs  of  these  free  people,  whom 
they  have  brought  under  their  domination,  under  pretence  of 
directing  their  consciences.  .  .  .  When  the  rapid  multiplica 
tion  of  the  population  of  all  European  countries  is  considered, 
it  is  evident  that  before  long  a  European  colony  will  be  formed 
in  each  of  the  innumerable  islands  of  the  Pacific,  and  mission- 


THE  PACIFIC  189 

ary  efforts  merit  therefore  all  the  attention  of  the  government. 
...  On  the  signal  from  the  first  cannon  that  shall  be  fired 
in  Europe,  a  protecting  flag  will  be  seen  to  rise  on  each  of 
these  islands  now  so  peaceful.  God  grant  that  the  tri-col- 
oured  flag  of  our  nation  may  show  itself  with  honour!" 

At  this  time,  it  was  a  law  of  Tahiti  that  before  a  foreigner 
could  have  leave  to  reside  on  the  island,  permission  must  be 
granted  by  Queen  Pomare  and  the  chiefs.  The  Catholic  mis 
sionaries,  aware  of  this  regulation,  succeeded,  however,  in  ef 
fecting  a  landing  disguised  as  carpenters,  and  to  this  island, 
partly  idolatrous,  partly  heretic,  they  gave  the  salutation  of 
peace.  Pomare,  however,  was  unappreciative  of  their  salute, 
and  refused  to  the  disguised  priests  permission  to  remain. 
This  exclusion,  in  its  sequel,  raised  the  most  delicate  questions 
of  international  diplomacy,  and  bestirred  Pomare  to  scatter 
anxious  letters  broadcast  over  the  face  of  the  earth.  Her  cor 
respondence  included  a  cosmopolitan  company  of  Commodores 
and  Admirals,  Queen  Victoria,  the  President  of  the  United 
States,  and  Louis  Philippe  of  France.  Admiral  Du  Petit- 
Thouars,  in  command  of  the  Venus,  was  despatched  to  Tahiti 
under  special  orders,  "to  make  the  Queen  and  the  inhabitants 
feel  that  France  is  a  great  and  powerful  nation."  The  Venus 
arrived  at  Tahiti,  August  27,  1838,  and  proceeded  to  summary 
justice.  Under  the  pressure  of  a  broadside,  Pomare  was 
obliged  to  beg  pardon  of  the  most  Christian  King.  "I  am 
only,"  she  wrote  to  Louis  Philippe,  "the  sovereign  of  a  little 
insignificant  island ;  may  glory  and  power  be  with  your  maj 
esty; — let  your  anger  cease;  and  pardon  me  the  mistake  that 
I  have  made." 

It  was  further  demanded  of  Pomare  that  she  pay  "a  great 
and  powerful  nation"  the  sum  of  two  thousand  dollars  as  a 
more  solid  reparation  for  her  bad  behaviour.  Pomare  was 
appalled  at  the  magnitude  of  this  sum :  there  was  no  such  am 
plitude  of  wealth  in  her  treasury.  The  missionaries  were 
moved  in  compassion  to  finance  her  political  indiscretion.  But 
in  the  next  humiliation  dealt  out  to  her,  the  brethren  were  un 
able  to  offer  much  assistance.  The  French  Admiral  bore  in 
structions  to  require  that  the  French  flag  be  hoisted  the  day 


190  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

following  the  receipt  of  the  two  thousand  dollars,  and  that  it 
be  honoured  by  Pomare  with  a  salute  of  twenty-one  guns.  The 
situation  was  awkward.  Pomare  was  very  short  of  powder. 
She  assured  the  Admiral  she  had  not  enough  for  more  than 
five  shots.  The  Admiral  paced  the  deck,  and  passed  his  fingers 
through  his  hair  in  considerable  agitation.  "What  will  they 
say  in  France/'  said  the  patriotic  commander,  "when  they 
know  that  I  furnished  the  powder  to  salute  my  own  flag?" 
The  difficulty  was  great.  An  expedient  was  necessary,  and  the 
Admiral  hit  upon  one:  "Mr.  Consul/'  said  he  to  the  Rev. 
Pritchard,  and  British  Consul,  "I  can  give  you  some  powder, 
and  you  can  do  with  it  as  you  please."  According  to  the 
French  report,  Pritchard  "himself  loaded  the  bad  cannon  on 
the  little  island  and  directed  the  firing;"  and  soon  after,  the 
French  observed  Pritchard  to  look  "thin  and  "Bilious,  with  an 
appearance  of  pride,  and  the  cold  dignity  so  natural  to  the  Eng 
lish." 

But  the  visiting  Admiral  had  not  yet  completed  his  duty  to 
"the  justly  irritated  King  of  the  French."  He  condescended 
to  visit  the  Queen  on  purpose  to  introduce  Moerenhaut  as 
French  consul.  Moerenhaut  had  been  American  consul  at 
Tahiti,  but  had  been  relieved  of  the  responsibilities  of  that  of 
fice  at  a  request  of  Pomare  to  the  President  of  the  United 
States.  Moerenhaut's  life,  in  all  of  its  varied  and  unsavoury 
details,  has  yet  to  be  written :  it  would  make  an  entertaining 
supplement  to  the  Police  Gazette.  Moerenhaut  himself  adven 
tured  in  letters,  and  in  his  Voyages  aux  ttes  du  Grand  Ocean 
he  exposes  many  of  the  corrupt  practices  that  he  himself  was 
instrumental  in  bringing  about.  The  Admiral  and  Moeren 
haut,  in  the  name  of  Louis  Philippe,  drew  up  a  convention 
with  Pomare  "to  establish  the  right  of  French  subjects  to  stay 
in  the  territory  of  the  Tahitian  sovereign." 

During  these  proceedings,  Captain  Dumont  D'Urville,  cruis 
ing  the  Pacific,  arrived  at  the  Marquesas  with  two  corvettes, 
the  Astrolabe  and  the  Zele,  hot  from  the  Gambier  islands,  the 
seat  of  Bishop  Rouchouse.  At  Gambier,  when  "all  were  gay 
and  cheerful,"  D'Urville  had  been  enlightened  as  to  the  true 
character  of  the  heretical  missionaries :  "oppressors  of  the  poor 


THE  PACIFIC  191 

Tahitians ;  in  short,  vampires,  whose  cruelties  and  inquisitorial 
tortures  were  as  atrocious  as  their  hypocrisy  was  disgusting." 
Before  he  left  the  jovial  board,  his  indignation  was  so  high 
that  "he  felt  the  honour  of  his  flag"  required  that  he  sail  to 
Tahiti  and  dispense  "exemplary  chastisement."  Upon  his  ar 
rival  at  the  Marquesas  he  was  surprised  to  find  Du  Petit- 
Thouars,  who  had  been  there,  already  departed.  There  was 
value  to  his  visit,  however,  in  giving  to  the  pious  efforts  of 
Bishop  Rouchouse  the  support  of  a  few  broadsides.  But  there 
were  other  scenes  at  the  Marquesas  of  which  Bishop  Rouchouse, 
in  good  conscience,  could  not  have  approved.  Melville  asserts 
that  while  the  Acushnet  was  at  the  Marquesas,  "our  ship  was 
wholly  given  up  to  every  species  of  riot  and  debauchery."  In 
the  official  account  of  the  voyages  of  Captain  Dumont  D'Ur- 
ville  is  a  more  detailed  account  of  a  similar  surrender.  Mel 
ville  says  of  the  dances  of  the  women  of  the  Marquesas: 
"There  is  an  abandoned  voluptuousness  in  their  character  that 
I  dare  not  attempt  to  describe."  The  French,  in  their  official 
reports,  exhibit  a  greater  courage. 

Captain  Dumont  D'Urville  arrived  in  Tahiti  nine  days  after 
the  submission  of  Pomare,  and  the  day  following  his  arrival 
he  accompanied  Admiral  Du  Petit-Thouars  on  a  visit  to  the 
Queen.  He  had  not  yet  cooled  in  his  patriotic  indignation,  so 
he  addressed  Pomare  severely,  and  with  gratifying  results:  "I 
perceived  that  Pomare  was  deeply  affected,  and  that  tears  be 
gan  to  fall  from  her  eyes,  as  she  threw  them  on  me  with  an  evi 
dent  expression  of  anger.  At  the  same  moment  I  also  per 
ceived  that  Captain  Du  Petit-Thouars  endeavoured  to  dimm 
ish  the  effect  of  my  words  by  some  little  liberties  that  he  was 
taking  with  the  Queen;  such  as  pulling  gently  her  hair,  and 
patting  her  cheeks;  he  even  added  that  she  was  foolish  to  be 
so  much  affected." 

When  her  French  visitors  sailed  away,  Pomare  on  Novem 
ber  8,  1838,  despatched  a  letter  to  her  sister  sovereign,  Vic 
toria,  to  implore  "the  shelter  of  her  wing,  the  defence  of  her 
lion,  and  the  protection  of  her  flag."  The  Tahitians  expressed 
their  sense  of  the  favours  being  forced  upon  them  by  the 
French  by  passing  a  law  prohibiting  "the  propagation  of  any 


192  HERMAN  MEi.VlI.LE 

religious  doctrines,  or  the  celebration  of  any  religious  worship, 
opposed  to  that  true  gospel  of  old  propagated  in  Tahiti  by  the 
missionaries  from  Britain;  that  is,  these  forty  years  past." 

This  breach  of  international  courtesy  brought  Captain  La 
place  on  the  Artemise  out  to  Tahiti  "to  obtain  satisfaction  from 
the  Lutheran  evangelists  who  had  forced  themselves  on  a 
simple  and  docile  people."  As  the  Artemise  was  off  the  coast, 
on  April  22,  1839,  she  struck  on  a  coral  reef :  an  accident  that 
resulted  in  the  officers  and  crew  being  lodged  on  shore  for 
two  months.  These  two  months  must  have  given  the  brethren 
bitter  fruit  for  reflection  upon  the  ease  with  which  their  years 
of  unselfish  striving  could  be  obliterated.  According  to  the 
account  of  Louis  Reybaud  of  the  Artemise:  "From  the  first, 
the  most  perfect  harmony  prevailed  between  the  ship's  com 
pany  and  the  natives.  Each  of  the  latter  chose  his  tayo, — 
that  is,  another  self — among  the  sailors.  Between  tayos 
everything  is  common.  At  night,  the  tayos,  French  and  Ta- 
hitian,  went  together  to  the  common  hut.  Every  sailor  has 
thus  a  house,  a  wife,  a  complete  domestic  establishment.  As 
jealousy  is  a  passion  unknown  to  these  islanders,  it  may  be 
imagined  what  resources  and  pleasures  such  an  arrangement 
afforded  our  crew.  The  natives  were  delighted  with  the  char 
acter  of  our  people ;  they  had  never  met  with  such  gaiety,  ex- 
pansiveness,  and  kindness  in  any  other  foreigners.  The  beach 
presented  the  aspect  of  a  continual  holiday,  to  the  great  scan 
dal  of  the  missionaries.  We  have  seen  how  the  men  managed, 
and  what  friends  they  found.  The  officers  were  not  less  for 
tunate.  The  island  that  Bougainville  called  the  New  Cytherea 
does  not  belie  its  name.  When  the  evening  set  in,  every  tree 
along  the  coast  shaded  an  impassioned  pair ;  and  the  waters  of 
the  river  afforded  an  asylum  to  a  swarm  of  copper-coloured 
nymphs,  who  came  to  enjoy  themselves  with  the  young  mid 
shipmen.  Wherever  you  walked  you  might  hear  the  oui!  oui! 
oui!  the  word  that  all  the  women  have  learnt  with  marvellous 
facility.  It  would  have  been  far  more  difficult  to  teach  them 
to  say  non!" 

Among  these  relaxations,  Captain  Laplace  found  time  pub 
licly  to  declare  to  the  islanders  "how  shameful  and  even  dan- 


THE  PACIFIC  193 

gerous  it  was  to  violate  the  faith  of  treaties,  and  how  unjust 
and  barbarous  was  intolerance."  Before  his  sailing,  Captain 
Laplace  commanded  Pomare  to  come  aboard  the  Artemise  to 
sign  a  treaty  guaranteeing  no  discrimination  against  the 
French.  Pomare's  despondency  at  the  beginning  of  the  pro 
ceedings  was  solaced  by  champagne  and  brandy.  Casimir 
Henricy,  who  accompanied  the  Artemise  throughout  her  cir- 
cumnavigatory  voyage,  says:  "When  the  spirits  of  the  party 
were  sufficiently  elevated  to  find  everything  good,  and  while 
the  hands  were  yet  sufficiently  steady  not  to  let  the  pen  drop, 
the  treaty  was  produced  as  the  crowning  act  of  the  festivity. 
M.  Laplace  thought  he  had  gained  a  great  victory  over  Poly 
nesian  diplomacy;  and,  certainly,  never  was  a  political  hori 
zon  more  bright  in  flowers  and  bottles." 

While  Tahiti  was  the  theatre  of  these  religious  and  political 
cabals,  more  important  and  decisive  measures  occupied  the 
mighty  minds  of  Europe.  The  captains  who  had  punished  and 
conventionalised  Pomare  and  her  people  had  made  their  reports 
in  person  to  their  sovereign  in  Paris,  and  to  the  ministers  of 
state,  who  had  indicated  their  instructions.  Honours  and  titles 
were  awarded  to  the  successful  officers,  and  on  their  showing 
it  was  resolved  that  the  Marquesas  should  first  be  taken  pos 
session  of,  and  then  Tahiti.  Rear-Admiral  Du  Petit-Thouars 
was  commissioned  to  execute  the  seizure.  On  board  the  Reine 
Blanche,  accompanied  by  three  frigates  and  three  corvettes,  he 
touched  Fatu-Heva,  the  southernmost  of  the  Marquesas,  on 
April  26,  1842,  and  culminated  'his  triumphant  progress 
through  the  group  in  the  bay  of  Tyohee  at  Nukuheva  on 
May  31. 

The  Acushnet  arrived  at  Nukuheva  at  a  memorable  time. 
"It  was  in  the  summer  of  1842  that  we  arrived  at  the  islands," 
says  Melville;  "the  French  had  then  held  possession  of  them 
for  several  weeks." 


CHAPTER  X 

MAN-EATING  EPICURES THE  MARQUESAS 

"  *Why,  they  are  cannibals !'  said  Toby  on  one  occasion  when  I  eulogised 
the  tribe.  'Granted/  I  replied,  'but  a  more  humane,  gentlemanly  and 
amiable  set  of  epicures  do  not  probably  exist  in  the  Pacific.' " 

— HERMAN  MELVILLE:  Typee. 

IT  was  sunset  when  the  Acushnet  came  within  sight  of  the 
loom  of  the  mountains  of  the  Marquesas.  Innumerable  sea- 
fowls,  screaming  and  whirling  in  spiral  tracts  had,  for  some 
days  previous,  been  following  the  vessel  as  harbingers  from 
land.  As  the  ship  drew  nearer  to  green  earth,  several  of  man- 
of-war's-hawks,  with  their  blood-red  bills  and  raven  plumage, 
had  circled  round  the  ship  in  diminishing  circles  until  Mel 
ville  was  able  distinctly  to  mark  the  strange  flashing  of  their 
eyes;  and  then,  as  if  satisfied  by  their  observations,  they  would 
sail  up  into  the  air  as  if  to  carry  sinister  warning  on  ahead. 
Then, — driftwood  on  the  oily  swells;  and  finally  had  come  the 
glad  announcement  from  aloft — given  with  that  peculiar  pro 
longation  of  sound  that  a  sailor  loves — "Land  ho!" 

After  running  all  night  with  a  light  breeze  straight  for  the 
island,  the  Acushnet  was  in  easy  distance  of  the  shore  by 
morning.  But  as  the  Acushnet  had  approached  the  island  from 
the  side  opposite  to  Tyohee — christened  by  Captain  Porter, 
Melville  remembered,  Massachusetts  Bay, — they  were  obliged 
to  sail  some  distance  along  the  shore.  Melville  was  surprised 
not  to  find  "enamelled  and  softly  swelling  plains,  shaded  over 
by  delicious  groves,  and  watered  by  purling  brooks."  In 
stead  he  found  himself  cruising  along  a  bold  rock-bound  coast, 
dashed  high  against  by  the  beating  surf,  and  broken  here  and 
there  into  deep  inlets  that  offered  sudden  glimpses  of  blooming 
valleys,  deep  glens,  waterfalls  and  waving  groves.  As  the 
ship  sailed  by  the  projecting  and  rocky  headlands  with  their 
short  inland  vistas  of  new  and  startling  beauty,  one  of  the 
sailors  exclaimed  to  Melville,  pointing  with  his  hand  in  the  di- 

194 


MAN-EATING  EPICURES  195 

rection  of  the  treacherous  valley:  "There — there's  Typee. 
Oh,  the  bloody  cannibals,  what  a  meal  they'd  make  of  us  if  we 
were  to  take  it  into  our  heads  to  land !  but  they  say  they  don't 
like  sailors'  flesh,  it's  too  salt.  I  say,  matey,  how  should  you 
like  to  be  shoved  ashore  there,  eh?"  Melville  shuddered  at 
the  question,  he  says,  little  thinking  that  within  the  space  of  a 
few  weeks  he  would  actually  be  a  captive  in  that  self-same 
valley. 

Towards  noon  they  swung  abreast  of  their  harbour.  No  de 
scription  can  do  justice  to  its  beauty,  Melville  tells  us.  But 
its  beauty  was  to  him  not  an  immediate  discovery.  All  that 
he  saw  was  the  tri-coloured  flag  of  France  trailing  over  the 
stern  of  six  vessels,  whose  black  hulls  and  bristling  broadsides 
floated  incongruously  in  that  tranquil  bay. 

The  first  emissary  from  the  shore  to  welcome  the  Acushnet 
was  a  visitor  in  that  interesting  state  of  intoxication  when  a 
man  is  amiable  and  helpless :  a  south-sea  vagabond,  once  a 
lieutenant  in  the  English  navy,  recently  appointed  pilot  to  the 
harbour  by  the  invincible  French.  He  was  aided  by  some 
benevolent  person  out  of  his  whale-boat  into  the  Acushnet,  and 
though  utterly  unable  to  stand  erect  or  navigate  his  own  body, 
he  magnanimously  proffered  to  steer  the  ship  to  a  good  an 
chorage:  a  feat  Captain  Pease  did  for  himself,  despite  the 
amazing  volubility  of  the  visitor  in  contrary  commands. 

This  renegade  from  Christendom  and  humanity  was  of  a 
type  not  infrequently  met  with  in  accounts  of  the  South  Seas. 
At  Hannamanoo,  Melville  came  across  another  such — a  white 
man  in  the  South  Sea  girdle,  and  tattooed  on  the  face,  living 
among  a  tribe  of  savages  and  apparently  settled  for  life,  so 
perfectly  satisfied  seemed  he  with  his  circumstances.  This  man 
was  an  Englishman, — Lem  Hardy  he  called  himself, — who 
had  deserted  from  a  trading  brig  touching  at  Hannamanoo  for 
wood  and  water  some  ten  years  previous.  Aboard  the  Acush 
net  he  told  his  history.  "Thrown  upon  the  world  a  foundling, 
his  paternal  origin  was  as  much  a  mystery  to  him  as  the  gene 
alogy  of  Odin;  and  scorned  by  everybody,  he  fled  the  parish 
workhouse  when  a  boy,  and  launched  upon  the  sea.  He  had 
followed  it  for  several  years,  a  dog  before  the  mast,  and  now 


196  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

he  had  thrown  it  up  forever."  He  had  gone  ashore  as  a 
sovereign  power,  armed  with  a  musket  and  a  bag  of  ammuni 
tion,  and  soon  became,  what  he  was  when  Melville  found  him, 
military  leader  of  the  tribe,  war-god  of  the  entire  island,  liv 
ing  under  the  sacred  protection  of  an  express  edict  of  the  taboo, 
his  person  inviolable  forever.  In  lies  Marquises,  ou  Nouka- 
Hiva,  Histoire,  Geographie,  Mceurs  et  Considerations  Gen- 
erales  (Paris,  1843)  by  Vincendon-Dumoulin  and  Desgraz  is 
to  be  found  (pages  356-359)  a  history  of  two  more  of  these 
vagabonds :  one  Joseph  Cabri,  a  Frenchman,  and  one  E.  Rob 
erts,  an  Englishman.  Cabri  returned  to  Europe,  for  a  time, 
to  find  the  novelty  of  his  tattooing  both  an  embarrassment  and 
a  source  of  livelihood.  He  was  examined  by  grave  learned 
societies,  was  presented  before  several  crowned  heads,  and  sub 
mitted  his  person  to  intimate  examination  to  any  one  who 
would  pay  his  fee.  In  1818  he  died  in  obscurity  and  poverty 
in  Valenciennes,  his  birth  place.  His  historians  regret  that 
his  precious  person  was  not  preserved  in  alcohol  to  delight  the 
inquiring  mind  of  later  generations.  The  Pacific,  it  would 
appear,  was  early  a  place  of  refuge  for  men  with  an  insur 
mountable  homesickness  for  the  mud.  Melville  soon  came  to 
believe  that  the  gifts  of  civilisation  to  the  South  Seas  were 
without  exception  very  doubtful  blessings;  he  came  to  be  a 
special  pleader  for  the  barbaric  virtues;  when  these  virtues 
were  practised  by  legitimate  barbarians;  but  the  spectacle  of 
such  men  as  Hardy  fell  beyond  the  pale  of  his  unusually  broad 
sympathies.  Though  he  was  despairingly  alert  to  the  vices  of 
Christendom,  never  was  he  betrayed  into  a  corrupt  hankering 
to  recapitulate  into  savagery.  Though  he  excused  the  can 
nibalism  of  the  Marquesans  as  an  amiable  weakness,  he  gazed 
upon  Hardy  "with  a  feeling  akin  to  horror."  Hardy's  tat 
tooing  was  to  Melville  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  the 
lowest  degradation  to  which  a  mortal,  nurtured  in  a  civilisation 
that  had  for  thousands  of  years  a  pathetically  imperfect 
struggle  striven  to  some  significance  above  the  beast,  could 
possibly  descend.  '-'What  an  impress !"  Melville  exclaimed  in 
superlative  loathing.  "Far  worse  than  Cain's — his  was  per 
haps  a  wrinkle,  or  a  freckle,  which  some  of  our  modern  cos- 


MAN-EATING  EPICURES  197 

metics  might  have  effaced."  But  Hardy's  tattooing  was  to 
Melville  a  mark  indelible  of  the  blackest  of  all  betrayals. 

More  worthy  emissaries  than  the  pilot  to  the  port  of  Tyohee 
were  to  welcome  Melville  to  the  Marquesas.  The  entrance  of 
the  Acushnet  brought  from  the  shore  a  flotilla  of  native  canoes. 
"Such  strange  outcries  and  passionate  gesticulations  I  never 
certainly  heard  or  saw  before,"  Melville  says.  "You  would 
have  thought  the  islanders  were  on  the  point  of  flying  at  one 
another's  throats,  whereas  they  were  only  amiably  engaged  in 
disentangling  their  boats."  Melville  was  surprised  at  the 
strange  absence  of  a  single  woman  in  the  invading  party,  not 
then  knowing  that  canoes  were  "taboo"  to  women,  and  that 
consequently,  "whenever  a  Marquesan  lady  voyages  by  water, 
she  puts  in  requisition  the  paddles  of  her  own  fair  body." 

As  the  Acushnet  approached  within  a  mile  and  a  half  of  the 
foot  of  the  bay,  Melville  noticed  a  singular  commotion  in  the 
water  ahead  of  the  vessel:  the  women,  swimming  out  from 
shore,  eager  to  embrace  the  advantages  of  civilisation.  "As 
they  drew  nearer,"  Melville  says,  "and  as  I  watched  the  rising 
and  sinking  of  their  forms,  and  beheld  the  uplifted  right  arm 
bearing  above  the  water  the  girdle  of  tappa,  and  their  long 
dark  hair  trailing  beside  them  as  they  swam,  I  almost  fancied 
they  could  be  nothing  else  but  so  many  mermaids.  Under 
slow  headway  we  sailed  right  into  the  midst  of  these  swim 
ming  nymphs,  and  they  boarded  us  at  every  quarter;  many 
seizing  hold  of  the  chain-plates  and  springing  into  the  chains; 
others,  at  the  peril  of  being  run  over  by  the  vessel  in  her 
course,  catching  at  the  bob-stays,  and  wreathing  their  slender 
forms  about  the  ropes,  hung  suspended  in  the  air.  All  of  them 
at  length  succeeded  in  getting  up  the  ship's  side,  where  they 
clung  dripping  with  the  brine  and  glowing  with  the  bath,  their 
jet-black  tresses  streaming  over  their  shoulders,  and  half  en 
veloping  their  otherwise  naked  forms.  There  they  hung, 
sparkling  with  savage  vivacity,  laughing  gaily  at  one  another, 
and  chattering  away  with  infinite  glee.  Nor  were  they  idle  the 
while,  for  each  performed  the  simple  offices  of  the  toilet  for 
the  other.  Their  luxuriant  locks,  wound  up  and  twisted  into 
the  smallest  possible  compass,  were  freed  from  the  briny  ele- 


198  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ment;  the  whole  person  carefully  dried,  and  from  a  small 
little  round  shell  that  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  anointed  with 
a  fragrant  oil :  their  adornments  were  completed  by  passing  a 
few  loose  folds  of  white  tappa,  in  a  modest  cincture,  around 
the  waist.  Thus  arrayed,  they  no  longer  hesitated,  but  flung 
themselves  lightly  over  the  bulwarks,  and  were  quickly  frol 
icking  about  the  decks.  Many  of  them  went  forward,  perch 
ing  upon  the  headrails  or  running  out  upon  the  bowsprit,  while 
others  seated  themselves  upon  the  taffrail,  or  reclined  at  full 
length  upon  the  boats." 

The  ship  was  fairly  captured,  and  it  yielded  itself  willing 
prisoner.  In  the  evening,  after  anchor  had  been  struck,  the 
deck  was  hung  with  lanterns,  and  the  women,  decked  in  flowers, 
danced  with  "an  abandoned  voluptuousness"  that  was  a  pre 
lude  "to  every  species  of  riot  and  debauchery."  According  to 
Melville's  account,  on  board  the  Acushnct  "the  grossest  licen 
tiousness  and  the  most  shameful  inebriety  prevailed,  with  oc 
casional  and  but  short-lived  interruptions,  through  the  whole 
period  of  her  stay." 

Nor  were  the  French  at  the  Marquesas  neglectful  of  their 
duties  to  the  islanders.  Admiral  Du  Petit-Thouars  had  sta 
tioned  about  one  hundred  soldiers  ashore,  according  to  Mel 
ville's  account.  Every  other  day  the  troops  marched  out  in 
full  regalia,  and  for  hours  went  through  all  sorts  of  military 
evolutions  to  impress  a  congregation  of  naked  cannibals  with 
the  superior  sophistications  of  Christendom.  "A  regiment  of 
the  Old  Guard,  reviewed  on  a  summer's  day  in  the  Champs 
Elysees,"  Melville  vouches,  "could  not  have  made  a  more 
critically  correct  appearance."  The  French  had  also  with 
them,  to  enrich  their  harvest  of  savage  plaudits,  a  puarkee  nuee, 
or  "big  hog" — in  more  cultivated  language,  a  horse.  One  of 
the  officers  was  commissioned  to  prance  up  and  down  the  beach 
at  full  speed  on  this  animal,  with  results  that  redounded  to  the 
glory  of  France.  This  horse  "was  unanimously  pronounced 
by  the  islanders  to  be  the  most  extraordinary  specimen  of 
zoology  that  had  ever  come  under  their  observation." 

It  would  be  an  ungracious  presumption  to  contend  that  the 
French,  while  at  the  Marquesas,  exhibited  to  the  natives  only 


MAN-EATING  EPICURES  199 

the  sterner  side  of  civilisation.  The  behaviour  of  the  French 
at  Tahiti  leaves  room  for  the  hope  that  they  were  no  less  gal 
lant  at  the  Marquesas.  An  officer  of  the  Reine  Blanche,  writ 
ing  at  sea  on  October  10,  1842,  of  the  exploits  of  his  country 
men  at  Tahiti,  says,  in  part:  "In  the  evening,  more  than  a 
hundred  women  came  on  board.  At  dinner  time,  the  officers 
and  midshipmen  invited  them  gallantly  to  their  tables;  and 
the  repasts,  which  were  very  gay,  were  prolonged  sufficiently 
late  at  night,  so  that  fear  might  keep  on  board  those  of  the 
women  who  were  afraid  to  sail  home  by  the  doubtful  light 
of  the  stars."  The  last  three  lines  of  this  letter  were  sup 
pressed  by  the  Journal  de  Dcbats,  it  is  true,  but  given  in  the 
National  and  other  journals.  Three  days  later  the  letter  was 
officially  pronounced  "inexact"  by  the  Moniteur,  which  cour 
ageously  asserted  that  "it  is  utterly  false  that  a  frigate  has 
been  the  theatre  of  corruption,  in  any  country  whatever;  and 
French  mothers  may  continue  to  congratulate  themselves  that 
their  sons  serve  in  the  navy  of  their  country." 

While  the  Frenchmen  at  the  Marquesas — no  less  than  the 
Americans,  one  hopes  with  pardonable  patriotic  jealousy — 
were  giving  their  mothers  at  home  cause  for  congratulation, 
Melville  came  to  the  determination  to  leave  the  ship;  "to  use 
the  concise,  point-blank  phrase  of  the  sailors,  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  'run  away.' '  And  that  his  reasons  for  resolving 
to  take  this  step  were  numerous  and  weighty,  he  says,  may  be 
inferred  from  the  fact  that  he  chose  rather  to  risk  his  fortune 
among  cannibals  than  to  endure  another  voyage  on  board  the 
Acushnet.  In  Typee  he  gives  a  general  account  of  the  cap 
tain's  bad  treatment  of  the  crew,  and  his  non-fulfilment  of 
agreements.  Life  aboard  the  Acushnet  has  already  been  suffi 
ciently  expatiated  upon. 

Melville  knew  that  immediately  adjacent  to  Nukuheva,  and 
only  separated  from  it  by  the  mountains  seen  from  the  har 
bour,  lay  the  lovely  valley  of  Happar,  whose  inmates  cher 
ished  the  most  friendly  relations  with  the  inhabitants  of  Nuku 
heva.  On  the  other  side  of  Happar,  and  closely  adjoining  it, 
lay  the  magnificent  valley  of  the  dreaded  Typee,  the  unappeas 
able  enemies  of  both  these  tribes.  These  Typees  enjoyed  a 


200  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

prodigious  notoriety  all  over  the  islands.  The  natives  of  Nuku- 
heva,  Melville  says,  used  to  try  to  frighten  the  crew  of  the 
Acushnet  "by  pointing  to  one  of  their  own  number  and  calling 
him  a  Typee,  manifesting  no  little  surprise  when  we  did  not 
take  to  our  heels  at  so  terrible  an  announcement."  But  hav 
ing  ascertained  the  fact  that  the  tribes  of  the  Marquesas  dwell 
isolated  in  the  depths  of  the  valleys,  and  avoided  wandering 
about  the  more  elevated  portions  of  the  islands,  Melville  con 
cluded  that  unperceived  he  might  effect  a  passage  to  the  moun 
tains,  where  he  might  easily  and  safely  remain,  supporting 
himself  on  such  fruits  as  came  in  his  way,  until  the  sailing  of 
the  ship.  The  idea  pleased  him  greatly.  He  imagined  him 
self  seated  beneath  a  cocoanut  tree  on  the  brow  of  the  moun 
tain,  with  a  cluster  of  plantains  within  easy  reach,  criticising 
the  ship's  nautical  evolutions  as  she  worked  her  way  out  of 
the  harbour,  and  contrasting  the  verdant  scenery  about  him 
with  the  recollections  of  narrow  greasy  decks  and  the  vile 
gloom  of  the  forecastle. 

Melville  at  first  prided  himself  that  he  was  the  only  person 
on  board  the  Acushnet  sufficiently  reckless  to  attempt  an  idyllic 
sojourn  on  an  island  of  irreclaimable  cannibals.  But  Toby's 
perennially  hanging  over  the  side  of  the  ship,  gazing  wistfully 
at  the  shore  in  moody  isolation,  coupled  with  Melville's  knowl 
edge  of  Toby's  hearty  detestation  of  the  ship,  of  his  dauntless 
courage,  and  his  other  engaging  traits  as  companion  in  high  ad 
venture,  led  Melville  to  share  with  Toby  his  schemes.  A  few 
words  won  Toby's  most  impetuous  co-operation.  Plans  were 
rapidly  made  and  ratified  by  an  affectionate  wedding  of  palms, 
when,  to  elude  suspicion,  each  repaired  to  his  hammock  to 
spend  a  last  night  aboard  the  Acushnet. 

On  the  morrow,  with  as  much  tobacco,  ship's  biscuit  and 
calico  as  they  could  stow  in  the  front  of  their  frocks,  Melville 
and  Toby  made  off  for  the  interior  of  Nukuheva, — but  not 
before  Melville  'lingered  behind  in  the  forecastle  a  moment 
to  take  a  parting  glance  at  its  familiar  features."  Their  five 
days  of  marvellous  adventures  that  landed  them  finally  in  the 
valley  of  Typee  has  abidingly  tried  the  credulity  of  Melville's 


MAN-EATING  EPICURES  201 

readers — though  never  for  an  instant  their  patience.  After 
reading  these  adventures,  Stevenson  expressed  his  slangy  ap 
proval  by  hailing  Melville  as  "a  howling  cheese."  It  has  been 
questioned  in  passing  whether  or  not  the  number  of  days  that 
two  strong  male  humans,  going  through  incredible  exertion, 
can  support  themselves  upon  a  hunk  of  bread  soaked  in  sweat 
and  ingrained  with  shreds  of  tobacco,  must  not  be  fewer  than 
Melville  makes  out.  And  did  they,  in  sober  verity,  critics  have 
asked,  lower  themselves  down  the  cliff  by  swinging  from 
creeper  to  creeper  with  horrid  gaps  between  them — was  it  as 
steep  as  Melville  says,  and  the  creepers  as  far  apart  ?  And  did 
they,  on  another  occasion,  as  Melville  asserts,  break  a  second 
gigantic  fall  by  pitching  on  the  topmost  branches  of  a  very 
high  palm  tree  ?  During  these  thrilling  and  terrible  five  days, 
hardship  runs  hard  on  the  heels  of  hardship,  and  each  obstacle 
as  it  presents  itself,  seems,  if  possible,  more  unsurmountable 
than  the  last.  There  is  no  way  out  of  this,  one  says  for  the 
tenth  time :  but  the  sagacity  and  fearless  confidence  of  Toby — 
to  whom  let  glory  be  given — and  the  manful  endurance  of  Mel 
ville  through  parching  fever  and  agonising  lameness,  disap 
point  the  lugubrious  reader.  On  the  third  day  after  their  es 
cape,  their  ardour  is  cooled  to  a  resolve  to  forego  futile  ram- 
blings  for  a  space.  They  crawled  under  a  clump  of  thick 
bushes,  and  pulling  up  the  long  grass  that  grew  around,  cov 
ered  themselves  completely  with  it  to  endure  another  down 
pour.  While  the  exhausted  Toby  slept  through  the  violent 
rain,  Melville  tossed  about  in  a  raging  fever,  without  the  heart 
to  wake  Toby  when  the  rain  ceased.  Chancing  to  push  aside 
a  branch,  Melville  was  as  transfixed  with  surprised  delight  as 
if  he  had  opened  a  sudden  vista  into  Paradise.  He  "looked 
straight  down  into  the  bosom  of  a  valley,  which  swept  away  in 
long  wavy  undulations  to  the  blue  waters  in  the  distance.  Mid 
way  towards  the  sea,  and  peering  here  and  there  amidst  the 
foliage,  might  be  seen  the  palmetto-thatched  houses  of  its  in 
habitants  glistening  in  the  sun  that  had  bleached  them  to  a 
dazzling  whiteness.  The  vale  was  more  than  three  leagues  in 
length,  and  about  a  mile  across  its  greatest  width.  Every- 


202  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

where  below  me,  from  the  base  of  the  precipice  upon  whose 
very  verge  I  had  been  unconsciously  reposing,  the  surface  of 
the  vale  presented  a  mass  of  foliage,  spread  with  such  rich  pro 
fusion  that  it  was  impossible  to  determine  of  what  description 
of  trees  it  consisted.  But  perhaps  there  was  nothing  about  the 
scenery  I  beheld  more  impressive  than  those  silent  cascades, 
whose  slender  threads  of  water,  after  leaping  down  the  steep 
cliffs,  were  lost  amidst  the  rich  foliage  of  the  valley.  Over 
all  the  landscape  there  reigned  the  most  hushed  repose,  which 
I  almost  feared  to  break,  lest,  like  the  enchanted  gardens  of 
the  fairy  tale,  a  single  syllable  might  dissolve  the  spell."  Toby 
was  awakened  and  called  into  consultation.  With  his  usual 
impetuosity,  Toby  wanted  promptly  to  descend  into  the  valley 
before  them;  but  Melville  restrained  him,  dwelling  upon  the 
perilous  possibility  of  its  inhabitants  being  Typees.  Toby  was 
with  difficulty  reined  to  circumspection,  and  off  Melville  and 
his  companion  started  on  a  wild  goose  chase  for  a  valley  on 
the  other  side  of  the  ridge.  So  fruitless  and  disheartening  did 
this  attempt  prove,  that  Melville  was  reduced  to  the  wan  solace 
that  it  was,  after  all,  better  to  die  of  starvation  in  Nukuheva 
than  to  be  fed  on  salt  beef,  stale  water  and  flinty  bread  in  the 
forecastle  of  the  Acushnet.  Yet  Toby  was  dauntless.  De 
spite  the  defeats  of  the  preceding  day,  Toby  awoke  on  the 
following  morning  as  blithe  and  joyous  as  a  young  bird.  Mel 
ville's  fever  and  his  swollen  leg,  however,  had  left  him  not  so 
exultant. 

"What's  to  be  done  now?"  Melville  inquired,  after  their 
morning  repast  of  a  crumb  of  sweat-mixed  biscuit  and  to 
bacco, — and  rather  doleful  was  his  inquiry,  he  confesses. 

"Descend  into  that  same  valley  we  descried  yesterday," 
rejoined  Toby,  with  a  rapidity  and  loudness  of  utterance  that 
led  Melville  to  suspect  almost  that  Toby  had  been  slyly  devour 
ing  the  broadside  of  an  ox  in  some  of  the  adjoining  thickets. 
"Come  on,  come  on ;  shove  ahead.  There's  a  lively  lad," 
shouted  Toby  as  he  led  the  way  down  a  ravine  that  jagged 
steeply  along  boulders  and  tangled  roots  down  into  the  valley; 
"never  mind  the  rocks ;  kick  them  out  of  the  way,  as  I  do ;  and 
to-morrow,  old  fellow,  take  my  word  for  it,  we  shall  be  in 


MAN-EATING  EPICURES  203 

clover.  Come  on;"  and  so  saying  he  dashed  along  the  ravine 
like  a  madman. 

Thus  was  piloted  down  into  the  heart  of  barbarism  the  man 
who  was  to  emerge  as  the  first  Missionary  Polynesia  ever  sent 
to  Christendom.  And  on  the  chances  of  Toby's  contagious 
impetuosity  hung  the  annexation  of  a  new  realm  to  the  king-- 
dom  of  the  imagination  and  the  discovery  of  a  new  manner  in 
the  history  of  letters.  For  on  that  day,  when  Melville  and 
Toby  struggled  down  that  ravine  like  Belzoni  worming  himself 
through  the  subterranean  passages  of  the  Egyptian  catacombs, 
the  Polynesians  were  without  a  competent  apologist,  and  the 
literary  possibilities  of  the  South  Seas  were  unsuspected. 

Literature  was,  of  course,  already  elaborated  with  fantas 
tic  patterns  drawn  from  barbarism,  and  the  Indians  of  Aphra 
Behn  and  Voltaire  had  given  place  to  the  redmen  of  Cooper. 
Earlier  than  this,  however,  the  great  discoverers,  in  their 
wealth  of  records,  had  given  many  an  account  of  their  con 
tacts  with  savage  peoples.  But  one  searches  in  vain  among 
these  records  for  any  very  vivid  sense  that  the  savage  and 
the  Christian  belong  to  the  same  order  of  nature.  At  best, 
one  gathers  the  impression  that  in  savagery  God's  image  had 
been  multiplied  in  an  excess  of  contemptible  counterfeits.  Mel 
ville  reports  that  as  late  as  his  day  "wanton  acts  of  cruelty  are 
not  unusual  on  the  part  of  sea  captains  landing  at  islands  com 
paratively  unknown.  Indeed,  it  is  almost  incredible,  the  light 
in  which  many  sailors  regard  these  naked  heathens.  They 
hardly  consider  them  human.  But  it  is  a  curious  fact,  that 
the  more  ignorant  and  degraded  men  are,  the  more  contemptu 
ously  they  look  upon  those  whom  they  deem  their  inferiors." 
John  G.  Paton  records  in  his  Autobiography  how,  in  1860, 
three  traders  gleefully  told  him  that  to  humble  the  natives  of 
Tanna,  and  to  diminish  their  numbers,  they  had  let  out  on 
shore  at  different  ports,  four  men  ill  with  the  measles — an  ex 
ceedingly  virulent  disease  among  savage  peoples.  "Our  watch 
words  are,"  these  jolly  traders  said,  "  'sweep  the  creatures 
into  the  sea,  and  let  white  men  occupy  the  soil/  '  This  senti 
ment  belongs  more  to  a  fixed  human  type,  than  to  a  period,  of 
course:  and  that  type  has  frequently  taken  to  sailing  strange 


204  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

seas.  In  treachery,  cruelty,  and  profligacy,  the  exploits  of 
European  discoverers  contain  some  of  the  rosiest  pages  in  the 
history  of  villainy. 

These  sickening  pages  of  civilised  barbarism  soon  won  to 
the  savage  ardent  apologists,  however,  who  applied  an  old  tech- 
riique  of  libel  by  imputing  to  the  unbreeched  heathen  a  touch 
ing  array  of  the  superior  virtues.  Montaigne  was  among  the 
first  to  come  forward  in  this  capacity.  "We  may  call  them 
barbarous  in  regard  to  reasons  rules,"  he  said,  "but  not  in  re 
spect  to  us  that  exceed  them  in  all  kinde  of  barbarisme.  Their 
warres  are  noble  and  generous,  and  have  as  much  excuse  and 
beautie,  as  this  humane  infirmitie  may  admit:  they  ayme  at 
nought  so  much,  and  have  no  other  foundation  amongst  them, 
but  the  meere  jelousie  of  vertue."  Once  in  full  current  of 
idealisation  Montaigne  goes  on  to  write  as  if  he  soberly  be 
lieved  that  savage  peoples  were  descended  from  a  stock  that 
Eve  had  conceived  by  an  angel  before  the  fall.  In  his  dithy 
ramb  on  the  nobilities  of  savagery,  Montaigne  was  unhampered 
by  any  first-hand  dealings  with  savages,  and  he  was  far  too 
wise  ever  to  betray  the  remotest  inclination  to  improve  his 
state  by  migrating  into  the  bosom  of  their  uncorrupted  no 
bility. 

The  myth  of  the  "noble  savage"  was  a  taking  conceit,  how 
ever,  and  when  Rousseau  taught  the  world  the  art  of  reverie, 
he  taught  it  also  an  easy  vagabondage  into  the  virgin  forest  and 
into  the  pure  keart  of  the  "natural  man."  In  describing  Rous 
seau's  influence  on  the  drawing  rooms,  Taine  says  that  "The 
fops  dreamed  between  two  madrigals  of  the  happiness  of  sleep 
ing  naked  in  the  virgin  forest."  Rousseau's  savage,  "attached 
to  no  place,  having  no  prescribed  task,  obeying  no  one,  having 
no  other  law  than  his  own  will,"  was,  of  course,  a  wilful  back 
ward  glance  to  the  vanished  paradise  of  childhood,  not  a  find 
ing  of  ethnology.  Yet  ethnology  may  prate  as  it  will,  the 
"noble  savage"  is  a  myth  especially  diverting  to  the  over- 
sophisticated,  and  like  dreams  of  the  virgin  forest,  thrives  ir- 
repressibly  among  the  upholsterings  of  civilisation.  The  soft 
and  ardent  dreamer,  no  less  than  the  sleek  and  parched  imag 
ination  of  Main  Street,  find  compensation  for  the  defeats  of 


MAN-EATING  EPICURES  205 

civilisation  in  dreams  of  a  primitive  Arcadia.  While  the 
kettle  is  boiling  they  relax  into  slippers  and  make  the  grand 
tour.  Chateaubriand — whose  life,  according  to  Lemaitre,  was 
a  "magnificent  series  of  attitudes" — showed  incredible  hardi 
hood  of  attitudinising  in  crossing  the  Atlantic  in  actual  quest 
of  the  primitive.  In  the  forest  west  of  Albany  he  did  pre 
tend  to  find  some  satisfaction  in  wild  landscape.  He  showed 
his  "intoxication"  at  the  beauties  of  wild  nature  by  taking  pains 
to  do  "various  wilful  things  that  made  my  guide  furious." 
But  Chateaubriand  was  less  fortunate  in  his  contact  with  sav 
agery  than  he  was  with  nature.  His  first  savages  he  found 
under  a  shed  taking  dancing  lessons  from  a  little  Frenchman, 
who,  "bepowdered  and  be  frizzled"  was  scraping  on  a  pocket 
fiddle  to  the  prancings  of  "ces  messieurs  sauvages  et  ces  dames 
sauvagesses."  Chateaubriand  concludes  with  a  reflection: 
"Was  it  not  a  crushing  circumstance  for  a  disciple  of  Rous 
seau?"  And  it  is  an  indubitable  fact  that  if  the  present-day 
disciples  of  the  South  Sea  myth  would  show  Chateaubriand's 
hardihood  and  migrate  to  Polynesia,  they  would  find  them 
selves  in  circumstances  no  less  "crushing." 

Melville  was  the  first  competent  literary  artist  to  write  with 
authority  about  the  South  Seas.  In  his  day,  a  voyage  to  those 
distant  parts  was  a  jaunt  not  lightly  to  be  undertaken.  In  the 
Pacific  there  were  islands  to  be  discovered,  islands  to  be  an 
nexed,  and  whales  to  be  lanced.  As  for  the  incidental  savage 
life  encountered  in  such  enterprise,  that,  in  Montaigne's  phrase, 
was  there  to  be  bastardised,  by  applying  it  to  the  pleasures  of 
our  corrupted  taste.  These  attractions  of  whaling  and  pa 
triotism — with  incidental  rites  to  Priapus — had  tempted  more 
than  one  man  away  from  the  comfort  of  his*  muffins,  and  more 
than  one  returned  to  give  an  inventory  of  the  fruits  of  the 
temptation.  The  knowledge  that  these  men  had  of  Polynesia 
was  ridiculously  slight:  the  regular  procedure  was  to  shoot  a 
few  cannibals,  to  make  several  marriages  after  the  manner  of 
Loti.  The  result  is  a  monotonous  series  of  reports  of  the 
glorious  accomplishments  of  Christians:  varied  on  occasions 
with  lengthy  and  learned  dissertations  on  heathendom.  But 
they  are  invariably  writers  with  insular  imagination,  telling  us 


206  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

much  of  the  writer,  but  never  violating  the  heart  of  Poly 
nesia. 

The  Missionaries,  discreetly  scandalised  at  the  exploitation 
of  unholy  flesh,  went  valiantly  forth  to  fight  the  battle  of 
righteousness  in  the  midst  of  the  enemy.  The  missionaries 
came  to  be  qualified  by  long  first-hand  contact  to  write  inti 
mately  of  the  heathen :  but  their  records  are  redolent  with  sanc 
tity,  not  sympathy.  The  South  Sea  vagabonds  were  the  best 
hope  of  letters:  but  they  all  seem  to  have  died  without  dictat 
ing  their  memoirs.  William  Mariner,  it  is  true,  thanks  to  a 
mutiny  at  the  Tongo  Islands  in  1805,  was  "several  years  resi 
dent  in  those  islands:"  and  upon  Mariner's  return,  Dr.  John 
Martin  spent  infinite  patience  in  recording  every  detail  of  sav 
age  life  he  could  draw  from  Mariner.  Dr.  Martin's  book  is 
still  a  classic  in  its  way:  detailed,  sober,  and  naked  of  literary 
pretensions.  This  book  is  the  nearest  approach  to  Typee  that 
came  out  of  the  South  Seas  before  Melville's  time.  So  nu 
merous  have  been  the  imitators  of  Melville,  so  popular  has 
been  the  manner  that  he  originated,  that  it  is  difficult  at  the 
present  day  to  appreciate  the  novelty  of  Typee  at  the  time  of 
its  appearance.  When  we  read  Mr.  Frederick  O'Brien  we  do 
not  always  remember  that  Mr.  O'Brien  is  playing  "sedulous 
ape" — there  is  here  intended  no  discourtesy  to  Mr.  O'Brien — 
to  Melville,  but  that  in  Typee  and  Omoo  Melville  was  play 
ing  "sedulous  ape"  to  nobody.  Only  when  Typee  is  seen 
against  the  background  of  A  Missionary  Voyage  to  the 
Southern  Pacific  Ocean  performed  in  the  years  1796,  //p/, 
1798  in  the  Ship  Duff  (1799)  and  Mariner's  Tonga  (1816) 
(fittingly  dedicated  to  Sir  Joseph  Banks,  President  of  the 
Royal  Society,  and  companion  of  Captain  Cook  in  the  South 
Seas)  can  Melville's  originality  begin  to  transpire. 

This  originality  lies  partly,  of  course,  in  the  novelty  of  Mel 
ville's  experience,  partly  in  the  temperament  through  which 
this  experience  was  refracted.  Melville  himself  believed  his 
only  originality  was  his  loyalty  to  fact.  He  bows  himself  out 
of  the  Preface  "trusting  that  his  anxious  desire  to  speak  the 
ungarnished  truth  will  gain  him  the  confidence  of  his  readers." 

When  Melville's  brother  Gansevoort  offered  Typee  for  pub- 


MAN-EATING  EPICURES  207 

lication  in  England,  it  was  accepted  not  as  fiction  but  as  eth 
nology,  and  was  published  as  Melville  s  Marquesas  only  after 
Melville  had  vouched  for  its  entire  veracity. 

Though  Melville  published  Typee  upright  in  the  conviction 
that  he  had  in  its  composition  been  loyal  both  to  veracity  and 
truth,  his  critics  were  not  prone  to  take  him  at  his  word.  And 
he  was  to  learn,  too,  that  veracity  and  truth  are  not  inter 
changeable  terms.  Men  do,  in  fact,  believe  pretty  much  what 
they  find  it  most  advantageous  to  believe.  We  live  by  preju 
dices,  not  by  syllogisms.  In  Typee,  Melville  undertook  to  show 
from  first-hand  observation  the  obvious  fact  that  there  are  two 
sides  both  to  civilisation  and  to  savagery.  He  was  among  the 
earliest  of  literary  travellers  to  see  in  barbarians  anything  but 
queer  folk.  He  intuitively  understood  them,  caught  their 
point  of  view,  respected  and  often  admired  it.  He  measured 
the  life  of  the  Marquesans  against  that  of  civilisation,  and 
wrote:  "The  term  'savage'  is,  I  conceive,  often  misapplied, 
and  indeed  when  I  consider  the  vices,  cruelties,  and  enormities 
of  every  kind  that  spring  up  in  the  tainted  atmosphere  of  a 
feverish  civilisation,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  so  far  as  the 
relative  wickedness  of  the  parties  is  concerned,  four  or  five 
Marquesan  Islanders  sent  to  the  United  States  as  missionaries, 
might  be  quite  as  useful  as  an  equal  number  of  Americans  dis 
patched  to  the  Islands  in  a  similar  capacity."  Civilisation  is 
so  inured  to  anathema, — so  reassured  by  it,  indeed, — that 
Melville  could  write  a  vague  and  sentimental  attack  upon  its 
obvious  imperfections  with  the  cool  assurance  that  each  of  his 
readers,  applying  the  charges  to  some  neighbour,  would  ap 
prove  in  self -righteousness.  But  one  ventures  the  "ungar- 
nished  truth"  about  any  of  the  vested  interests  of  civilisation 
at  the  peril  of  his  peace  in  this  world  and  the  next.  It  was 
when  Melville  focussed  his  charge  and  wrote  "a  few  passages 
which  may  be  thought  to  bear  rather  hard  upon  a  reverend 
order  of  men"  with  incidental  reflections  upon  "that  glorious 
cause  which  has  not  always  been  served  by  the  proceedings  of 
some  of  its  advocates,"  that  all  the  musketry  of  the  soldiers  of 
the  Prince  of  Peace  was  aimed  at  his  head.  Melville  himself 
was  a  man  whose  tolerance  provoked  those  who  sat  in  jealous 


208  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

monopoly  upon  warring  sureties  to  accuse  him  of  license.  He 
specifies  his  delight  in  finding  in  the  valley  of  Typee  that  "an 
unbounded  liberty  of  conscience  seemed  to  prevail.  Those  who 
were  pleased  to  do  so  were  allowed  to  repose  implicit  faith  in 
an  ill-favoured  god  with  a  large  bottle-nose  and  fat  shape 
less  arms  crossed  upon  his  breast;  whilst  others  worshipped 
an  image  which,  having  no  likeness  either  in  heaven  or  on  earth, 
could  hardly  be  called  an  idol.  As  the  islanders  always  main 
tained  a  discrete  reserve  with  regard  to  my  own  peculiar  views 
on  religion,  I  thought  it  would  be  excessively  ill-bred  in  me  to 
pry  into  theirs."  This  boast  of  delicacy  did  not  pass  unno 
ticed  by  "a  reverend  order  of  men."  The  vitriolic  rejoinder 
of  the  London  Missionary  Society  would  seem  to  indicate  that 
there  may  be  two  versions  of  "the  ungarnished  truth."  It 
should  be  stated,  however,  that  the  English  editions  of  Typee 
contain  strictures  against  the  Missionaries  that  were  omitted 
in  the  American  editions.  But  even  Melville's  unsanctified 
critics  showed  an  anxiety  to  repudiate  him.  Both  Typee  and 
Omoo  were  scouted  as  impertinent  inventions,  defying  belief 
in  their  "cool  sneering  wit  and  perfect  want  of  heart/'  Mel 
ville's  name  was  suspiciously  examined  as  being  a  nom  dc 
plume  used  to  cover  a  cowardly  and  supercilious  libel.  A  gen 
tleman  signing  himself  G.  W.  P.  and  writing  in  the  American 
Review  (1847,  Vol.  IV,  pp.  36-46)  was  scandalised  by  Mel 
ville's  habit  of  presenting  "voluptuous  pictures,  and  with  cool 
deliberate  art  breaking  off  always  at  the  right  point,  so  as 
without  offending  decency,  he  may  excite  unchaste  desire." 
After  discovering  in  Melville's  writing  a  boastful  lechery,  this 
gentleman  undertakes  to  discountenance  Melville  on  three 
scores:  (i)  only  the  impotent  make  amorous  boasts;  (2)  Mel 
ville  had  none  of  Sir  Epicure  Mammon's  wis»hed-for  elixir; 
(3)  the  beauty  of  Polynesian  women  is  all  myth. 

Unshaken  in  the  conviction  of  his  loyalty  to  fact,  Melville 
discovered  that  the  essence  of  originality  lies  in  reporting  "the 
ungarnished  truth." 

On  the  subject  of  "originality"  in  literature,  Melville  says 
in  Pierre:  "In  the  inferior  instances  of  an  immediate  literary 
success,  in  very  young  writers,  it  would  be  almost  invariably 


MAN-EATING  EPICURES  209 

observable,  that  for  that  instant  success  they  were  chiefly  in 
debted  to  some  rich  and  peculiar  experience  in  life,  embodied 
in  a  book,  which  because,  for  that  cause,  containing  original 
matter,  the  author  himself,  forsooth,  is  to  be  considered 
original;  in  this  way,  many  very  original  books  being  the 
product  of  very  unoriginal  minds."  It  is  none  the  less  true, 
however,  that  though  Melville  and  Toby  both  lived  among  the 
cannibals,  it  was  Melville,  not  Toby,  who  wrote  Typee. 

For  four  months  Melville  was  held  in  friendly  captivity  by 
the  Typees.  His  swollen  leg  was  healed  by  native  doctors — 
but  not  without  prolonged  pain  and  anxiety — he  was  fed,  he 
was  amused,  he  was  lionised  by  the  valley.  His  hosts  were 
savages;  they  were  idolaters,  they  were  inhuman  beasts  who 
licked  their  lips  over  the  roasted  thighs  of  their  enemies;  and 
at  the  same  time  they  were  crowned  with  flowers,  sometimes 
exquisite  in  beauty,  courteous  in  manners,  and  engaged  all 
day  long  in  doing  not  only  what  they  enjoyed  doing,  but  what, 
so  far  as  Melville  could  judge,  they  had  every  right  to  enjoy 
doing.  With  Toby,  Melville  was  consigned  to  the  household 
of  Kory-Kory.  Kory-Kory,  though  a  tried  servitor  and 
faithful  valet,  was,  Melville  admits,  in  his  shavings  and  tat 
toos,  a  hideous  object  to  look  upon — covered  all  over  with 
fish,  fowl,  and  monster,  like  an  illustrated  copy  of  Goldsmith's 
Animated  Nature.  Kory-Kory's  father,  Marheyo,  a  retired 
gentleman  of  gigantic  frame,  was  an  eccentric  old  fellow,  who 
seems  to  have  been  governed  by  no  fixed  principles  whatever. 
He  employed  the  greater  part  of  his  time  in  throwing  up  a 
little  shed  just  outside  the  house,  tinkering  away  at  it  end 
lessly,  without  ever  appearing  to  make  any  perceptible  ad 
vance.  He  would  eat,  sleep,  potter  about,  with  fine  contempt 
for  the  proprieties  of  time  or  place.  "Frequently  he  might 
have  been  seen  taking  a  nap  in  the  sun  at  noonday,  or  a  bath 
in  the  stream  at  midnight.  Once  I  beheld  him  eighty  feet 
from  the  ground,  in  the  tuft  of  a  cocoanut  tree,  smoking,  and 
often  I  saw  him  standing  up  to  the  waist  in  water,  engaged 
in  plucking  out  the  stray  hairs  of  his  beard,  using  a  piece  of 
mussel-shell  for  tweezers.  I  remember  in  particular  his  hav 
ing  a  .choice  pair  of  ear-ornaments,  fabricated  from  the  teeth 


210  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

of  some  sea-monster.  These  he  would  alternately  wear  and 
take  off  at  least  fifty  times  in  the  course  of  a  day,  going  and 
coming  from  his  little  hut  on  each  occasion  with  all  the  tran 
quillity  imaginable.  Sometimes  slipping  them  through  the 
slits  in  his  ears,  he  would  seize  his  spear  and  go  stalking  be 
neath  the  shadows  of  the  neighbouring  groves,  as  if  about  to 
give  a  hostile  meeting  to  some  cannibal  knight.  But  he  wrould 
soon  return  again,  and  hiding  his  weapon  under  the  project 
ing  eaves  of  the  house,  and  rolling  his  clumsy  trinkets  care 
fully  in  a  piece  of  tappa,  would  resume  his  more  pacific  opera 
tions  as  quietly  as  if  he  had  never  interrupted  them." 

Kory-Kory's  mother  was,  so  Melville  reports,  the  only  in 
dustrious  person  in  all  the  valley  of  Typee :  "bustling  about 
the  house  like  a  country  landlady  at  an  unexpected  arrival: 
forever  giving  the  young  girls  tasks  to  perform,  which  the 
little  huzzies  as  often  neglected;  poking  into  every  corner,  and 
rummaging  over  bundles  of  old  tappa,  or  making  a  prodigious 
clatter  among  the  calabashes.  She  could  not  have  employed 
herself  more  actively  had  she  been  left  an  exceedingly  mus 
cular  and  destitute  widow,  with  an  inordinate  supply  of  young 
children,  in  the  bleakest  part  of  the  civilised  world."  Yet  was 
hers  withal  the  kindliest  heart  imaginable.  "Warm  indeed," 
Melville  says,  "are  my  remembrances  of  the  dear,  good, 
affectionate  old  Tinor!" 

There  also  belonged  to  the  household,  three  young  men, 
"dissipated,  good-for-nothing,  roystering  blades  of  savages," 
and  several  girls.  Of  these,  Melville  has  immortalised  Faya- 
way,  his  most  constant  companion.  He  has  anatomised  her 
charms  in  the  manner  of  his  first  Fragment  from  a  Writing- 
Desk.  But  it  is  Fayaway  in  action,  not  Fayaway  in  still  life, 
that  survives  in  the  imagination.  At  Melville's  intercession, 
the  taboo  against  women  entering  a  boat  was  lifted.  Many 
hours  they  spent  together  swimming,  or  floating  in  the  canoe: 
diversions  heightened  in  their  heinousness  by  the  fact  that 
Fayaway  for  the  most  part  clung  to  the  primitive  and  sum 
mer  garb  of  Eden — and  the  costume  became  her.  Nor  did 
Melville's  depravity  cease  with  his  unblushing  approval  of 
nakedness.  "Strange  as  it  may  seem,"  Melville  writes  in  the 


MAN-EATING  EPICURES  211 

'4o's,  "there  is  nothing  in  which  a  young  and  beautiful  female 
appears  to  more  advantage  than  in  the  act  of  smoking." 
Fayaway  not  only  smoked, — but  she  smoked  a  pipe,  as  they 
drifted  in  the  canoe.  One  day,  as  they  were  gliding  along, 
Fayaway  "seemed  all  at  once  to  be  struck  with  a  happy  idea. 
With  a  wild  exclamation  of  delight,  she  disengaged  from  her 
person  the  ample  robe  of  tappa  which  was  knotted  over  her 
shoulder  (for  the  purpose  of  shielding  her  from  the  sun),  and 
spreading  it  out  like  a  sail,  stood  erect  with  upraised  arms  in 
the  head  of  the  canoe.  We  American  sailors  pride  ourselves 
upon  our  straight  clean  spars,  but  a  prettier  mast  than  Faya 
way  made  was  never  shipped  aboard  of  any  craft."  John 
La  Farge  has  painted  Fayaway  in  this  attitude. 

And  the  occupation  of  Toby  during  all  this?  Soon  after 
their  arrival,  Toby  had  been  despatched  to  Nukuheva  under 
pretence  of  procuring  relief  for  Melville's  swollen  leg,  actually 
to  facilitate  his  and  Melville's  escape.  Toby  never  again  re 
turned  to  Typee.  He  had  been  treacherously  beguiled  on 
board  a  whaler,  unable  to  escape  until  he  left  his  vessel  at 
New  Zealand.  "After  some  further  adventures,"  says  Mel 
ville  in  The  Story  of  Toby,  written  in  July,  1846,  ten  days 
after  the  two  men  discovered  each  other's  existence  through 
the  instrumentality  of  Typee,  and  published  as  a  "sequel"  to 
that  novel,  "Toby  arrived  home  in  less  than  two  years  after 
leaving  the  Marquesas." 

While  Melville  had  the  companionship  of  Toby  in  Typee, 
he  was  even  then  eager  to  get  back  to  civilisation.  That 
savagery  was  good  for  savages  he  never  wearied  of  contend 
ing.  But  despite  the  idyllic  delights  of  Typee — an  idyll  with 
a  sombre  background,  however — Melville  was  never  tempted 
to  resign  himself  to  its  vacant  animal  felicity.  Melville,  unlike 
Baudelaire  and  Whitman,  was  not  stirred  by  the  advantages 
of  "living  with  the  animals."  While  among  them,  he  evinced 
a  desire  neither  to  adopt  their  ways,  nor  to  change  them.  He 
made  them  pop-guns,  he  astonished  them  by  exhibiting  the 
miracle  of  sewing.  He  tried  to  teach  them  to  box.  "As  not 
one  of  the  natives  had  soul  enough  in  him  to  stand  up  like  a 
man,  and  allow  me  to  hammer  away  at  him,  for  my  own  per- 


212  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

sonal  satisfaction  and  that  of  the  king,  I  was  necessitated  to 
fight  with  an  imaginary  enemy,  whom  I  invariably  made  to 
knock  under  to  my  superior  prowess." 

Among  the  bachelors  of  the  Ti,  the  men's  club  of  the  val 
ley,  he  chatted,  he  smoked,  he  drowsed:  he  witnessed  the 
Feast  of  the  Calabashes  when,  for  the  livelong  day  "the  drums 
sounded,  the  priests  chanted,  and  the  multitude  roared  and 
feasted1' — a  scene  reminiscent  of  a  University  whole-heartedly 
given  over  to  "campus  activity."  A  mock  battle  was  staged 
for  his  diversion.  He  entered  the  funeral  fastnesses  where 
the  effigies  of  former  heroes  eternally  paddled  canoes  adorned 
by  the  skulls  of  their  enemies.  He  mused  by  pools,  splashing 
with  laughing  bronze  nymphs.  Yet  withal,  Melville  was  a 
captive  in  the  valley.  His  lameness,  too,  returned.  His  hosts 
began  to  make  friendly  but  insistent  suggestions  that  he  be 
tattooed — a  suggestion  superlatively  repugnant  to  him.  He 
heard,  moreover,  the  clamour  of  a  cannibal  feast,  and  lifted 
the  cover  of  a  tub  under  which  lay  a  fresh  human  skeleton. 
Under  these  circumstances  he  taught  old  Marheyo  two  Eng 
lish  words :  Home  and  Mother.  But  he  did  not  complete  the 
trinity.  Forsan  et  haec  olim  meminisse  juvabit.  It  was  time 
for  him  to  depart. 

One  profoundly  silent  noon,  as  Melville  lay  lame  and 
miserable  under  Kory-Kory's  roof,  Mow-Mow,  the  one-eyed 
chief,  appeared  at  the  door,  and  leaning  forward  towards  Mel 
ville,  whispered :  Toby  penii  ena — "Toby  has  arrived."  That 
evening  Mow-Mow's  dead  body  floated  on  the  Pacific,  a  boat- 
hook  having  been  mortally  hurled  at  his  throat.  And  it  was 
Melville  who  hurled  the  boat-hook. 

An  Australian  whaler,  touching  at  the  harbour  of  Nuku- 
heva,  had  been  .informed  of  Melville's  detention  in  Typee. 
Desirious  of  adding  to  his  crew,  the  Captain  had  sailed  round 
thither,  and  "hove  to"  off  the  mouth  of  the  bay.  Chary  of 
the  man-eating  propensities  of  the  Typees,  the  Captain  sent  in 
a  boat-load  of  taboo  natives  from  the  other  harbour,  with  an 
interpreter  at  their  head,  to  procure  Melville's  release.  Ac 
companied  by  a  throng  of  armed  natives,  Melville  was  carried 
down  to  the  shore — being  too  lame  to  walk  the  distance.  A 


MAN-EATING  EPICURES  213 

gun  and  an  extravagant  bounty  of  powder  and  calico  were 
offered  for  Melville's  release :  but  this  bounty  was  clamor 
ously  and  indignantly  rejected.  Karakoee,  the  head  of  the 
ransoming  party,  was  menaced  by  furious  gestures,  and  forced 
out  into  the  sea,  up  to  his  waist  in  the  surf.  Blows  were 
struck,  wounds  were  given,  and  blood  flowed.  In  the  excite 
ment  of  the  fray,  Melville  was  left  to  the  guardianship  of 
Marheyo,  Kory-Kory,  and  Fayaway.  Throwing  to  these  three 
the  articles  that  had  been  brought  for  his  ransom,  Melville 
bounded  into  the  boat  which  was  in  immediate  readiness  to 
pull  off  towards  the  ship.  It  was  not  until  the  boat  was  about 
fifty  yards  from  the  shore  that  the  savages  recovered  from 
their  astonishment  at  Melville's  alacrity  in  escape.  Then 
Mow-Mow  and  six  or  seven  warriors  rushed  into  the  sea  and 
hurled  their  javelins  at  the  retreating  boat — and  some  of  the 
weapons  passed  as  close  as  was  desirable.  The  wind  was 
freshening  every  minute,  and  was  right  in  the  teeth  of  the 
retreating  party.  Karakoee,  who  was  steering  the  boat,  gave 
many  a  look  towards  a  jutting  point  of  the  bay  they  had  to 
pass.  When  they  came  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  point, 
the  savages  on  the  shore  dashed  into  the  water,  swimming 
out  towards  the  boat :  and  by  the  time  Melville's  party  reached 
the  headland,  the  savages  were  spread  right  across  the  boat's 
course.  The  rowers  got  out  their  knives  and  held  them  ready 
between  their  teeth.  Melville  seized  the  boat-hook.  Mow-Mow, 
with  his  tomahawk  between  his  teeth,  was  nearest  to  the  boat, 
ready  the  next  instant  to  seize  one  of  the  oars.  "Even  at  the 
moment  I  felt  horror  at  the  act  I  was  to  commit;  but  it  was 
no  time  for  pity  or  compunction,  and  with  a  true  aim,  and 
exerting  all  my  strength,  I  dashed  the  boat-hook  at  him.  I 
struck  him  below  the  throat,  and  forced  him  downward." 
Mow-Mow's  body  arose  in  the  wake  of  the  boat,  but  not  to 
attack  again.  Another  savage  seized  the  gunwale,  but  the 
knives  of  the  rowers  so  mauled  his  wrists,  that  before  many 
moments  the  boat  was  past  all  the  Typees,  and  in  safety.  In 
the  closing  tableau,  Melville  fell  fainting  into  the  arms  of 
Karakoee. 

Though  later,  when  Melville  was  a  sailor  in  the  United 


214  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

States  Navy,  he  touched  at  the  Marquesas,  he  never  again  set 
foot  within  the  valley  of  Typee.  Melville  had  known  the 
Typees  in  their  uncorrupted  glory — strong,  wicked,  laughter- 
loving  and  clean.  Mr.  O'Brien  visited  Typee  not  many  years 
ago,  to  find  it  pathetically  fallen  from  its  high  estate.  "I 
found  myself,"  he  says,  "in  a  loneliness  indescribable  and  ter 
rible.  No  sound  but  that  of  a  waterfall  at  a  distance  parted 
the  sombre  silence.  .  .  .  Humanity  was  not  so  much  absent  as 
gone,  and  a  feeling  of  doom  and  death  was  in  the  motionless 
air,  which  lay  like  a  weight,  upon  leaf  and  flower.  The  thin, 
sharp  buzzing  of  the  nonos  was  incessant."  Mr.  O'Brien  dis 
covered  in  the  heart  of  the  valley  fewer  than  a  dozen  people 
who  sat  within  the  houses  by  cocoanut-husk  fires,  the  acrid 
smoke  of  which  daunted  the  nonos.  "They  have  clung  to 
their  lonely  paepaes  despite  their  poverty  of  numbers  and  the 
ferocity  of  the  nonos.  They  had  clearings  with  cocoanuts 
and  breadfruits,  but  they  cared  no  longer  to  cultivate  them, 
preferring  rather  to  sit  sadly  in  the  curling  fumes  and  dream 
of  the  past.  One  old  man  read  aloud  the  Gospel  of  St.  John 
in  Marquesan,  and  the  others  listlessly  listened,  seeming  to 
drink  in  little  comfort  from  the  verses,  which  he  recited  in 
the  chanting  monotone  of  their  uta.  .  .  .  Nine  miles  in  length 
is  Typee,  from  a  glorious  cataract  that  leaps  over  the  dark  but 
tress  wall  where  the  mountain  bounds  the  valley,  to  the  blaz 
ing  beach.  And  in  all  this  extent  of  marvellously  rich  land, 
there  are  now  this  wretched  dozen  natives,  too  old  or  listless 
to  gather  their  own  food." 

Thou  hast  conquered,  O  Galilean ! 


CHAPTER  XI 

MUTINY   AND    MISSIONARIES TAHITI 

"Ah,  truant  humour.     But  to  me 
That  vine-wreathed  urn  of  Ver,  in  sea 
Of  halcyons,  where  no  tides  do  flow 
Or  ebb,  but  waves  bide  peacefully 
At  brim,  by  beach  where  palm  trees  grow 
That  sheltered   Omai's  olive   race — 
Tahiti  should  have  been  the  place 
For  Christ  in  advent." 

— HERMAN   MELVILLE  :   Clanel. 

IT  was  in  the  middle  of  a  bright  tropical  afternoon  that 
Melville  made  good  his  escape  from  the  valley  of  Typee.  The 
Australian  whaler — called  by  Melville  the  Julia — which  had 
broken  his  four  months'  captivity,  lay  with  her  main-topsail 
aback,  about  a  league  from  the  land.  "She  turned  out  to  be 
a  small,  slatternly  looking  craft,  her  hull  and  spars  a  dingy 
black,  rigging  all  slack  and  bleached  nearly  white,  and  every 
thing  denoting  an  ill  state  of  affairs  aboard.  Leaning  care 
lessly  over  the  bulwarks  were  the  sailors,  wild,  haggard-look 
ing  fellows  in  Scotch  caps  and  faded  blue  frocks;  some  of 
them  with  cheeks  of  mottled  bronze,  to  which  sickness  soon 
changes  the  rich  berry-brown  of  a  seaman's  complexion  in  the 
tropics."  So  extraordinary  was  Melville's  appearance — "a 
robe  of  the  native  cloth  was  thrown  over  my  shoulders,  my 
hair  and  beard  were  uncut,  and  I  betrayed  other  evidences  of 
my  recent  adventure" — that  as  the  boat  came  alongside,  a  low 
cry  ran  fore  and  aft  the  deck.  Immediately  on  gaining  the 
deck,  Melville  was  beset  on  all  sides  by  questions. 

Indeed,  never  afterwards,  it  appears,  could  Melville  escape 
a  like  curiosity.  Henceforth  he  was  to  be  "the  man  who  lived 
among  the  cannibals."  Nor  does  he  always  seem  to  have  been 
so  uncommunicative  as  he  grew  in  later  years.  In  the  Preface 
to  Omoo,  after  recording  the  fact  that  he  kept  no  journal  dur- 

215 


216  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ing  his  wanderings  in  the  South  Seas,  he  says:  "The  fre 
quency,  however,  with  which  these  incidents  have  been  ver 
bally  related,  has  tended  to  stamp  them  upon  the  memory." 
There  is  novelty  in  his  logic:  all  twice-told  tales  are  not  al 
ways  just-so  stories.  He  says,  too,  in  the  Preface  to  Typee: 
"The  incidents  recorded  in  the  following  pages  have  often 
served,  when  'spun  as  a  yarn,'  not  only  to  relieve  the  weariness 
of  many  a  night-watch  at  sea,  but  to  excite  the  warmest  sym 
pathies  of  the  author's  shipmates." 

Upon  being  taken  aboard  the  Julia,  Melville  was  almost 
immediately  seen  by  the  captain,  a  young,  pale,  slender,  sickly 
looking  creature,  who  signed  Melville  up  for  one  cruise,  en 
gaging  to  discharge  him  at  the  next  port. 

Life  on  board  the  Julia  was,  if  anything,  worse  than  life 
on  board  the  Acushnet.  In  the  first  place,  Melville  was  ill. 
Not  until  three  months  after  his  escape  from  Typee  did  he 
regain  his  normal  strength.  And,  as  always,  Melville  looked 
back  with  regret  upon  leaving  the  life  he  had  so  wanted  to 
escape  from  while  he  was  in  the  midst  of  it.  "As  the  land 
faded  from  my  sight,"  he  says,  "I  wras  all  alive  to  the  change 
in  my  condition.  But  how  far  short  of  our  expectations  is 
oftentimes  the  fulfilment  of  the  most  ardent  hopes.  Safe 
aboard  of  a  ship — so  long  my  earnest  prayer — with  home  and 
friends  once  more  in  prospect,  I  nevertheless  felt  weighed 
down  with  a  melancholy  that  could  not  be  shaken  off."  Mel 
ville  felt  he  was  leaving  cannibalism  forever — and  the  depar 
ture  shot  a  pang  into  his  heart. 

The  ship's  company  were  a  sorry  lot :  reduced  by  desertion 
from  thirty-two  to  twenty  souls,  and  more  than  half  of  the 
remaining  were  more  or  less  unwell  from  a  long  sojourn  in 
a  dissipated  port.  Some  were  wholly  unfit  for  duty;  one  or 
two  were  dangerously  ill.  The  rest  managed  to  stand  their 
watch,  though  they  could  do  little.  The  crew  was,  for  the 
most  part,  a  typical  whaling  crew :  "villains  of  all  nations  and 
dyes;  picked  up  in  the  lawless  Spanish  Main,  and  among  the 
savages  of  the  islands."  The  provisions,  too,  on  board  the 
Julia  were  notoriously  bad,  even  for  a  whaler.  Melville's  re 
gret  at  leaving  Typee  was  not  mere  wanton  sentimentality. 


MUTINY  AND  MISSIONARIES        217 

The  captain  was  despised  by  all  aboard.  He  was  commonly 
called  "The  Cabin  Boy,"  'Taper  Jack,"  "Miss  Guy"  and 
other  descriptive  titles.  Though  sheepish  looking,  he  was  a 
man  of  still,  timid  cunning  that  did  not  endear  him  to 
Melville. 

The  mate,  John  Jermin,  was  of  the  efficient  race  of  short 
thick-set  men :  bullet  headed,  with  a  fierce  little  squint  out  of 
one  eye,  and  a  nose  with  a  rakish  tilt  to  one  side.  His  was 
the  art  of  knocking  a  man  down  with  irresistible  good 
humour,  so  the  very  men  he  flogged  loved  him  like  a  brother. 
He  had  but  one  failing :  he  abhorred  weak  infusions,  and 
cleaved  manfully  to  strong  drink.  He  was  never  completely 
sober:  and  when  he  was  nearly  drunk  he  was  uncommonly 
obstreperous. 

Jermin  was  master  of  every  man  aboard  except  the  ship's 
carpenter, — a  man  so  excessively  ugly  he  went  by  the  name  of 
"Beauty."  As  ill-favoured  as  Beauty  was  in  person,  he  was 
no  less  ugly  in  temper:  his  face  had  soured  his  heart.  Mel 
ville  witnessed  an  encounter  between  Jermin  and  Beauty :  an 
encounter  that  showed  up  clearly  the  state  of  affairs  on  board. 
While  Beauty  was  thrashing  Jermin  in  the  forecastle,  the  cap 
tain  called  down  the  scuttle :  "Why,  why,  what's  all  this 
about?  Mr.  Jermin,  Mr.  Jermin — carpenter,  carpenter:  what 
are  you  doing  down  there?  Come  on  deck;  come  on  deck." 
In  reply  to  this,  Doctor  Long  Ghost  cried  out  in  a  squeak, 
"Ah !  Miss  Guy,  is  that  you  ?  Now,  my  dear,  go  right  home, 
or  you'll  get  hurt."  The  captain  dipped  his  head  down  the 
scuttle  to  make  answer,  to  receive,  full  in  the  face,  the  con 
tents  of  a  tin  of  soaked  biscuit  and  tea-leaves.  Things  were 
not  well  aboard  the  Julia. 

But  it  was  Doctor  Long  Ghost — he  who  so  mocked  the  cap 
tain — who  figures  most  largely  in  Melville's  history:  a  man 
remarkable  both  in  appearance  and  in  personality.  He  was 
over  six  feet — a  tower  of  bones,  with  a  bloodless  complexion, 
fair  hair  and  a  pale  unscrupulous  grey  eye  that  twinkled  occa 
sionally  with  the  very  devil  of  mischief.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  cruise  of  the  Julia,  as  ship's  doctor,  he  had  lived  in  the 
cabin  with  the  captain.  But  once  on  a  time  they  had  got  into 


218  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

a  dispute  about  politics,  and  the  doctor,  getting  into  a  rage, 
had  driven  his  argument  home  with  his  fist,  and  left  the  cap 
tain  on  the  floor,  literally  silenced.  The  captain  replied  by 
shutting  him  up  in  his  state-room  for  ten  days  on  a  diet  of 
bread  and  water.  Upon  his  release  he  went  forward  with  his 
chests  among  the  sailors  where  he  was  welcomed  as  a  good 
fellow  and  an  injured  man. 

The  early  history  of  Doctor  Long  Ghost  he  kept  to  him 
self;  but  it  was  Melville's  conviction  that  he  had  certainly  at 
some  time  or  other  spent  money,  drunk  Burgundy,  and  asso 
ciated  with  gentlemen.  "He  quoted  Virgil,  and  talked  of 
Hobbes  of  Malmsbury,  besides  repeating  poetry  by  the  canto, 
especially  Hudibras."  In  the  most  casual  manner,  too,  he 
could  refer  to  an  amour  he  had  in  Palermo,  his  lion  hunting 
before  breakfast  among  the  Kaffirs,  and  the  quality  of  coffee 
he  had  drunk  in  Muscat. 

Melville  was  in  no  condition,  physically,  to  engage  in  the 
ship's  duties,  so  he  and  Doctor  Long  Ghost  fraternised  in  the 
forecastle,  where  they  were  treated  by  the  crew  as  distin 
guished  guests.  There  they  talked,  played  chess — with  an  out 
fit  of  their  own  manufacture — and  there  Melville  read  the 
books  of  the  Long  Doctor,  over  and  over  again,  not  omitting 
a  long  treatise  on  the  scarlet  fever. 

At  its  best,  the  forecastle  is  never  an  ideal  abode:  but  the 
forecastle  of  the  Julia — its  bunks  half  wrecked,  its  filthy 
sailors'  pantry,  and  its  plague  of  rats  and  cockroaches — must 
have  made  the  Highlander  seem  as  paradise  in  retrospect. 
The  forecastle  of  the  Julia,  Melville  says,  "looked  like  the  hol 
low  of  an  old  tree  going  to  decay.  In  every  direction  the 
wood  was  damp  and  discoloured,  and  here  and  there  soft  and 
porous.  Moreover,  it  was  hacked  and  hewed  without  mercy, 
the  cook  frequently  helping  himself  to  splinters  for  kindling 
wood."  The  viciousness  of  the  crew  of  the  Julia,  did  not,  of 
course,  perceptibly  enhance  the  charms  of  the  forecastle.  Nor 
was  Melville's  estate  made  more  enviable  when  the  man  in  the 
bunk  next  to  his  went  wildly  delirious.  One  night  Melville 
was  awakened  from  a  vague  dream  of  horrors  by  something 
clammy  resting  on  him :  his  neighbour,  with  a  stark  stiff  arm 


MUTINY  AND  MISSIONARIES        219 

reached  out  into  Melville's  bunk,  had  during  the  night  died. 
The  crew  rejoiced  at  his  death. 

For  weeks  the  Julia  tacked  about  among  the  islands  of  the 
South  Seas.  The  captain  was  ill,  and  Jermin  steered  the  Julia, 
to  Tahiti,  to  arrive  off  the  island  the  moment  that  Admiral 
Du  Petit-Thouars  was  firing,  from  the  Reine  Blanche,  a  salute 
in  honour  of  the  treaty  he  had  just  forced  Pomare  to  sign. 

But  to  the  astonishment  of  the  crew,  Jermin  kept  the  ship 
at  sea,  fearing  the  desertion  of  all  his  men  if  he  struck  anchor. 
His  purpose  was  to  set  the  sick  captain  ashore,  and  to  resume 
the  voyage  of  the  Julia  at  once,  to  return  to  Tahiti  after  a 
certain  period  agreed  upon,  to  take  the  captain  off.  The  crew 
were  in  no  mood  to  view  this  manoeuvre  with  indifference. 
Melville  and  Long  Ghost  cautioned  them  against  the  folly  of 
immediate  mutiny,  and  on  the  fly-leaf  of  an  old  musty  copy 
of  A  History  of  the  Most  Atrocious  and  Bloody  Piracies,  a 
round-robin  was  indited,  giving  a  statement  of  the  crew's 
grievances,  and  concluding  with  the  earnest  hope  that  the 
consul  would  at  once  come  off  and  see  how  matters  stood. 
Pritchard,  the  missionary  consul,  was  at  that  time  in  Eng 
land;  his  place  was  temporarily  filled  by  one  Wilson,  son  of 
the  well-known  missionary  of  that  name,  and  no  honour  to 
his  ancestor.  It  did  not  promise  well  for  the  crew  that  Wilson 
was  an  old  friend  of  Captain  Guy's. 

The  round-robin  was  the  prelude  to  iniquitous  bullying  and 
stupidity  on  the  part  of  Wilson,  Jermin,  and  Captain  Guy. 
To  the  crew,  it  seemed  that  justice  was  poisoned  at  the  foun 
tain  head.  They  gazed  on  the  bitter  waters,  did  a  stout  menag 
erie  prance,  and  raged  into  mutiny.  Then  it  was,  after  one 
of  the  men  had  all  but  succeeded  in  maliciously  running  the 
Julia  straight  upon  a  reef,  that  the  good  ship  was  piloted  into 
the  harbour  of  Papeetee,  and  the  crew — including  Melville 
and  the  Long  Doctor,  who  were  misjudged  because  of  the 
company  they  kept — were  for  five  days  and  nights  held  in 
chains  on  board  the  Reine  Blanche.  At  the  end  of  that  time 
they  were  tried,  one  by  one,  before  a  tribunal  composed  of 
Wilson  and  two  elderly  European  residents.  Melville  was 
examined  last.  One  of  the  elderly  gentlemen  condescended  to 


220  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

take  a  paternal  interest  in  Melville.  "Come  here,  my  young 
friend,"  he  said;  "I'm  extremely  sorry  to  see  you  associated 
with  these  bad  men;  do  you  know  what  it  will  end  in?"  Mel 
ville  was  in  no  mood  for  smug  and  salvationly  solicitations. 
He  had  already  declared  that  his  resolution  with  respect  to 
the  ship  was  unalterable :  he  stuck  to  this  resolution.  Wilson 
thereupon  pronounced  the  whole  crew  clean  gone  in  perversity, 
and  steeped  in  abomination  beyond  the  reach  of  clemency. 
He  then  summoned  a  fat  old  native,  Captain  Bob — and  a 
hearty  old  Bob  he  proved — giving  him  directions  to  marshal 
the  crew  to  a  place  of  safe  keeping. 

Along  the  Broom  Road  they  were  led :  and  to  Melville, 
escaped  from  the  forecastle  of  the  Julia  and  the  confined 
decks  of  the  frigate,  the  air  breathed  spices.  "The  tropical 
day  was  fast  drawing  to  a  close,"  he  says;  "and  from  where 
we  were,  the  sun  looked  like  a  vast  red  fire  burning  in  the 
woodlands — its  rays  falling  aslant  through  the  endless  ranks 
of  trees,  and  every  leaf  fringed  with  flame." 

About  a  mile  from  the  village  they  came  to  the  Calabooza 
Beretanee — the  English  jail. 

The  jail  was  extremely  romantic  in  appearance:  a  large 
oval  native  house,  with  a  dazzling  white  thatch,  situated  near 
a  mountain  stream  that,  flowing  from  a  verdant  slope,  spread 
itself  upon  a  beach  of  small  sparkling  shells,  and  then  trickled 
into  the  sea.  But  the  jail  was  ill  adapted  for  domestic  com 
forts,  the  only  piece  of  furniture  being  two  stout  pieces  of 
timber,  about  twenty  feet  in  length,  gouged  to  serve  as  stocks. 
John  La  Farge,  in  his  Reminiscences  of  the  South  Seas,  says: 
"We  try  to  find,  by  the  little  river  that  ends  our  walk,  on  this 
side  of  the  old  French  fort,  the  calaboose  where  Melville  was 
shut  up.  There  is  no  one  to  help  us  in  our  search ;  no  one  re 
members  anything.  Buildings  occupy  the  spaces  of  woodland 
that  Melville  saw  about  him.  Nothing  remains  but  the  same 
charm  of  light  and  air  which  he,  like  all  others,  has  tried  to 
describe  and  to  bring  back  home  in  words.  But  the  beach  is 
still  as  beautiful  as  if  composed  by  Claude  Lorraine." 

In  this  now-departed  calaboose,  Melville  and  the  rest  were 
kept  in  very  lenient  captivity  by  Captain  Bob.  Captain  Bob's 


MUTINY  AND  MISSIONARIES        221 

notion  of  discipline  was  delightfully  vague.  He  insensibly 
remitted  his  watchfulness,  and  the  prisoners  were  free  to 
stroll  further  and  further  from  the  Calabooza.  After  about 
two  weeks — for  days  melted  deceptively  into  each  other  at 
Tahiti — the  crew  was  again  summoned  before  Wilson,  again 
to  declare  themselves  unshaken  in  their  obstinate  refusal  to 
sail  again  with  Captain  Guy.  So  back  to  the  Calabooza  they 
were  sent. 

The  English  Missionaries  left  their  cards  at  the  Calabooza 
in  the  shape  of  a  package  of  tracts;  three  of  the  French 
priests — whom  the  natives  viewed,  so  Melville  says,  as  "no 
better  than  diabolical  sorcerers" — called  in  person.  One  of 
the  priests — called  by  Melville,  Father  Murphy — discovered  a 
compatriot  among  the  crew,  and  celebrated  the  discovery  by 
sending  a  present  of  a  basket  of  bread.  Such  was  the  persua 
sion  of  the  gift  that,  on  Melville's  count,  "we  all  turned 
Catholics,  and  went  to  mass  every  morning,  much  to  Captain 
Bob's  consternation.  He  threatened  to  keep  us  in  the  stocks, 
if  we  did  not  desist." 

After  three  weeks  Wilson  seems  to  have  begun  to  suspect 
that  it  was  not  remotely  impossible  that  he  was  making  a 
laughing  stock  of  himself  in  his  futile  attempt  to  break  the 
mutineers  into  contrition.  So  off  the  Julia  sailed,  manned  by 
a  new  crew.  But  before  sailing,  Jermin  served  his  old  crew 
the  good  turn  of  having  their  chests  sent  ashore.  And  when 
each  w'as  in  possession  of  his  sea-chest,  the  Calabooza  was 
thronged  with  Polynesians,  each  eager  to  take  a  tayo,  or 
bosom  friend. 

Though  technically  still  prisoners,  Melville  and  his  former 
shipmates  were  allowed  a  long  rope  in  their  wanderings.  Mel 
ville  improved  his  leisure  by  attending,  each  Sunday,  the  ser 
vices  held  in  the  great  church  which  Pomare  had  built  to  be 
baptised  in.  In  Omoo,  Melville  gives  a  detailed  account  of  a 
typical  Sabbath,  and  then  launches  into  chapters  of  discussion 
upon  the  fruits  of  Christianity  in  Polynesia. 

At  church  Melville  had  observed,  among  other  puzzlingly  in 
congruous  performances,  a  young  Polynesian  blade  standing 
up  in  the  congregation  in  all  the  bravery  of  a  striped  calico 


222  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

shirt,  with  the  skirts  rakishly  adjusted  over  a  pair  of  white 
sailor  trousers,  and  hair  well  anointed  with  cocoanut  oil, 
ogling  the  girls  with  an  air  of  supreme  satisfaction.  And  of 
those  who  ate  of  the  bread-fruit  of  the  Eucharist  in  the  morn 
ing,  he  knew  several  who  were  guilty  of  sad  derelictions  the 
same  night.  Desiring,  if  possible,  to  find  out  what  ideas  of 
religion  were  compatible  with  this  behaviour,  he  and  the 
Long  Doctor  called  upon  three  sister  communicants  one  even 
ing.  While  the  doctor  engaged  the  two  younger  girls,  Mel 
ville  lounged  on  a  mat  with  Ideea,  the  eldest,  dallying  with 
her  grass  fan,  and  improving  his  knowledge  of  Tahitian. 

"The  occasion  was  well  adapted  to  my  purpose,  and  I  began. 

"  'Ah,  Ideea,  mickonaree  oee  ?'  the  same  as  drawling  out — 
'By  the  by,  Miss  Ideea,  do  you  belong  to  the  church  ?' 

"  'Yes,  me  mickonaree/  was  the  reply. 

"But  the  assertion  was  at  once  qualified  by  certain  reserva 
tions;  so  curious  that  I  cannot  forbear  their  relation. 

"  'Mickonaree  cna  (church  member  here),  exclaimed  she, 
laying  her  hand  upon  her  mouth,  and  a  strong  emphasis  on  the 
adverb.  In  the  same  way,  and  with  similar  exclamations,  she 
touched  her  eyes  and  hands.  This  done,  her  whole  air  changed 
in  an  instant;  and  she  gave  me  to  understand,  by  unmistakable 
gestures,  that  in  certain  other  respects  she  was  not  exactly  a 
'mickonaree/  In  short,  Ideea  was 

"  'A  sad  good  Christian  at  the  heart — 
A  very  heathen  in  the  carnal  part.' " 

"The  explanation  terminated  in  a  burst  of  laughter,  in  which 
all  three  sisters  joined;  and  for  fear  of  looking  silly,  the  doc 
tor  and  myself.  As  soon  as  good-breeding  would  permit,  we 
took  leave." 

It  is  Melville's  contention  that  the  very  traits  in  the  Tahi- 
tians  which  induced  the  London  Missionary  Society  to  regard 
them  as  the  most  promising  subjects  Tor  conversion,  were,  in 
fact,  the  most  serious  obstruction  to  their  ever  being  Chris 
tians.  "An  air  of  softness  in  their  manners,  great  apparent  in 
genuousness  and  docility,  at  first  misled;  but  these  were  the 


MUTINY  AND  MISSIONARIES        223 

mere  accompaniments  of  an  indolence,  bodily  and  mental;  a 
constitutional  voluptuousness;  and  an  aversion  to  the  least  re 
straint;  which,  however  fitted  for  the  luxurious  state  of  nature, 
in  the  tropics,  are  the  greatest  possible  hindrances  to  the  strict 
moralities  of  Christianity."  Of  the  Marquesans,  Melville  says 
in  Typee :  "Better  it  will  be  for  them  to  remain  the  happy  and 
innocent  heathens  and  barbarians  that  they  now  are,  than, 
like  the  wretched  inhabitants  of  the  Sandwich  islands,  to  en 
joy  the  mere  name  of  Christians  without  experiencing  any  of 
the  vital  operations  of  true  religion,  whilst,  at  the  same  time, 
they  are  made  the  victims  of  the  worst  vices  and  evils  of  civi 
lised  life." 

Paul  Gauguin,  in  his  Intimate  Journals,  seems  to  share  Mel 
ville's  conviction  that  the  Polynesians  are  disqualified  by  na 
ture  to  experience  "any  of  the  vital  operations  of  the  spirit." 
In  speaking  of  the  attempts  of  the  missionaries  to  introduce 
marriage  into  Polynesia  he  remarks  cynically :  "As  they  are 
going  out  of  the  church,  the  groom  says  to  the  maid  of  honour, 
'How  pretty  you  are !'  And  the  bride  says  to  the  best  man 
'How  handsome  you  are !"  Very  soon  one  couple  moves  off 
to  the  right  and  another  to  the  left,  deep  into  the  underbrush 
where,  in  the  shelter  of  the  banana  trees  and  before  the  Al 
mighty,  two  marriages  take  place  instead  of  one.  Monseigneur 
is  satisfied,  and  says,  'We  are  beginning  to  civilise  them.' ' 

The  good  intentions  of  the  Missionaries  Melville  does  not 
question.  But  high  faith  and  low  intelligence  is  a  dangerous 
if  not  uncommon  mating  of  qualities.  "It  matters  not,"  he 
says,  "that  the  earlier  labourers  in  the  work,  although  strictly 
conscientious,  were,  as  a  class,  ignorant,  and  in  many  cases, 
deplorably  bigoted :  such  traits  have,  in  some  degree,  charac 
terised  the  pioneers  of  all  faith.  And  although  in  zeal  and 
disinterestedness,  the  missionaries  now  on  the  island  are,  per 
haps,  inferior  to  their  predecessors,  they  have,  nevertheless, 
in  their  own  way,  at  least,  laboured  hard  to  make  a  Christian 
people  of  their  charge." 

As  a  result  of  this  labour  idolatry  was  done  away  with;  the 
entire  Bible  was  translated  into  Tahitian;  the  morality  of  the 
islanders  was,  on  the  whole,  improved.  These  accomplish- 


224  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ments  Melville  freely  admits.  But  in  temporal  felicity,  "the 
Tahitians  are  far  worse  off  now  than  formerly ;  and  although 
their  circumstances,  upon  the  whole,  are  bettered  by  the  mis 
sionaries,  the  benefits  conferred  by  the  latter  become  utterly 
insignificant,  when  confronted  with  the  vast  preponderance  of 
evil  brought  by  other  means."  Melville  found  that  there  was 
still  at  Tahiti  freedom  and  indolence;  torches  brandished  in 
the  woods  at  night ;  dances  under  the  moon,  and  women  decked 
with  flowers.  But  he  also  found  the  Missionaries  intent  upon 
the  abolition  of  the  native  amusements  and  customs — in  their 
crowning  efforts,  decking  the  women  out  in  hats  "said  to  have 
been  first  contrived  and  recommended  by  the  missionaries' 
wives;  a  report  which,  I  really  trust,  is  nothing  but  a  scandal." 
To  Melville's  eyes,  Tahiti  was  neither  Pagan  nor  Christian,  but 
a  bedraggled  bastard  cross  between  the  vices  of  two  incom 
patible  traditions.  And  in  this  blend  he  saw  the  promise  of 
the  certain  extinction  of  the  Polynesians.  The  Polynesians 
themselves  were  not  blind  to  the  doom  upon  them.  Melville 
had  heard  the  aged  Tahitians  singing  in  a  low  sad  tone  a  song 
which  ran :  "The  palm  trees  shall  grow,  the  coral  shall  spread, 
but  man  shall  cease." 

Melville's  plea  was  that  Christendom  treat  Polynesia  with 
reasonableness,  and  Christian  charity :  perhaps  the  two  rarest 
qualities  in  the  world.  His  plea  was  not  without  results ;  he 
unloosed  upon  himself  exhibitions  of  venom  of  the  whole 
hearted  sort  that  enamour  a  misanthrope  to  life.  The  Living 
Age  (Vol.  XXVII)  reprinted  from  the  Eclectic  Review  a 
tribute  which  began :  "Falsehood  is  a  thing  of  almost  invin 
cible  courage ;  overthrow  it  to-day,  and  with  freshened  vigour 
it  will  return  to  the  lists  to-morrow.  Omoo  illustrates  this  fact. 
We  were  under  the  illusion  that  the  abettors  of  infidelity  and 
the  partisans  of  popery  had  been  put  to  shame  by  the  repeated 
refutation  and  exposure  of  their  slanders  against  the  Protes 
tant  Missions  in  Polynesia;  but  Mr.  Melville's  production 
proves  that  shame  is  a  virtue  with  which  these  gentry  are 
totally  unacquainted,  and  that  they  are  resharpening  their 
missiles  for  another  onset."  This  review  then  made  it  its  ob 
ject  "to  show  that  his  statements  respecting  the  Protestant 


FIRST    HOME    OF    THE    PROTESTAXT    MISSIONARIES    IX    TAHITI 

From  a  report  of  The  London  Missionary  Society,  published  in  1799. 


THE    FLEET    OF   TAHITI 


From  an  engraving  after  Hodges,  the  artist  who  accompanied 
Captain  Cook  to  the  South  Seas. 


MUTINY  AND  MISSIONARIES        225 

Mission  in  Tahiti  are  perversions  of  the  truth — that  he  is 
guilty  of  deliberate  and  elaborate  misrepresentation,  and  .  .  . 
that  he  is  a  prejudiced,  incompetent,  and  truthless  witness." 
It  was  taken  for  granted  that  Melville  was  guilty  of  the 
heinous  crime  of  being  a  Catholic.  From  this  presumption  it 
was  easy  to  understand  that  Melville's  plea  for  sweetness  and 
light  was  but  the  vicious  ravings  of  a  man  "foiled  and  disap 
pointed  by  the  rejection  of  Mariolatry  and  the  worship  of 
wafers  and  of  images,  and  of  dead  men  by  the  Bible-reading 
Tahitians."  By  a  convincing — if  not  cogent — technique  of 
controversy,  Melville's  evidence  was  impugned  by  a  discount 
ing  of  the  morals  of  the  witness  :  a  Catholic,  and  a  disseminator 
of  the  "worst  of  European  vices  and  the  most  dreadful  of 
European  diseases." 

Melville  was  twenty-eight  years  old  when  he  Quixotically 
championed  the  heathen  in  the  name  of  a  transcendental  char 
ity  which  he  believed  to  be  Christian.  Amiable  Protestant 
brethren  undertook  to  disabuse  him  of  his  naive  belief  that 
the  guardians  of  the  faith  of  Christendom  invariably  regu 
late  their  conduct  in  the  spirit  of  Christ.  As  Melville  grew 
in  wisdom  he  grew  in  disillusion :  and  his  early  tilt  at  the  Lon 
don  Missionary  Society  contributed  to  his  rapid  growth.  At 
the  age  of  thirty-three  he  wrote  in  Pierre — a  book  planned  to 
show  the  impracticability  of  virtue — that  "God's  truth  is  one 
thing,  and  man's  truth  another."  He  then  maintained  that 
the  history  of  Christendom  for  the  last  1800  years  showed 
that  "in  spite  of  all  the  maxims  of  Christ,  that  history  is  as 
full  of  blood,  violence,  wrong,  and  iniquity  of  every  kind,  as 
any  previous  portion  of  the  world's  story."  He  says  in  Clarel: 

"The  world  is  portioned  out,  believe: 
The  good  have  but  a  patch  at  best, 
The  wise  their  corner ;  for  the  rest — 
Malice  divides  with  ignorance." 

Melville  points  out  that  Christ's  teachings  seemed  folly  to  the 
Jews  because  Christ  carried  Heaven's  time  in  Jerusalem,  while 
the  Jews  carried  Jerusalem  time  there.  "Did  He  not  expressly 


226  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

say  'My  wisdom  is  not  of  this  world?'  Whatever  is  really 
peculiar  in  the  wisdom  of  Christ  seems  precisely  the  same 
folly  to-day  as  it  did  1850  years  ago."  In  Clarel,  he  goes 
further,  and  calls  the  world 

"a  den 

Worse  for  Christ's  coming,  since  His  love 
(Perverted)  did  but  venom  prove." 

Though  such  a  heretical  idea  was,  to  the  Protestant  brethren, 
of  course,  clean  gone  on  the  farthest  side  of  damnation,  yet 
were  Melville  and  these  same  brethren  working-  upon  an  iden 
tical  major  premise :  each  was  righteously  convinced  that  he 
was  about  his  Father's  business — each  was  attempting  to  rout 
the  other  in  the  name  of  Christ.  The  brethren  rode  forth  in 
the  surety  of  triumph;  Melville  retired  within  himself  con 
vinced  that  defeat  was  not  refutation,  and  that  his  way  had 
been,  withal,  the  way  of  Heavenly  Truth.  And  since  his  way 
bore  but  bitter  fruit,  he  shook  the  dust  of  the  earth  from  his 
feet,  convinced  that  such  soil  was  designed  to  nourish  only  in 
iquity.  "Where  is  the  earnest  and  righteous  philosopher/' 
he  asks,  framing  his  question  to  include  himself  in  that  glorious 
minority,  "who  looking  right  and  left,  and  up  and  down 
through  all  the  ages  of  the  world,  the  present  included;  where 
is  there  such  an  one  who  has  not  a  thousand  times  been  struck 
with  a  sort  of  infidel  idea,  that  whatever  other  worlds  God  may 
be  Lord  of,  He  is  not  Lord  of  this :  for  else  this  world  would 
seem  to  give  Him  the  lie ;  so  utterly  repugnant  seem  its  ways 
to  the  instinctively  known  ways  of  Heaven/'  In  this  world, 
he  grew  to  feel,  a  wise  man  resigns  himself  to  the  world's 
ways.  "When  we  go  to  heaven,"  he  taught,  "it  will  be  quite  an 
other  thing.  There,  we  can  freely  turn  the  left  cheek,  because 
the  right  cheek  will  never  be  smitten.  There  they  can  freely 
give  all  to  the  poor,  for  there  there  will  be  no  poor  to  give  to." 
And  this,  he  contended,  was  a  salutary  doctrine :  "I  hold  up  a 
practical  virtue  to  the  vicious ;  and  interfere  not  with  the  eter 
nal  truth,  that,  sooner  or  later,  downright  vice  is  downright 
woe."  His  milk  of  human  kindness  was  not  sweetened  by  the 
thunder  of  the  Protestant  brethren. 


MUTINY  AND  MISSIONARIES        227 

Resigned  to  the  insight  that  while  on  earth  no  wise  man 
aims  at  heaven  except  by  a  virtuous  expediency,  he  accepted 
the  London  Missionary  Society  as  one  of  the  evils  inherent 
in  the  universe,  and  leaving  it  to  its  own  fate,  looked  propheti 
cally  forward  to  the  Inter-Church  World  Movement.  In  The 
Confidence  Man  he  makes  one  of  the  characters  say:  "Mis 
sions  I  would  quicken  with  the  Wall  Street  spirit.  For  if, 
confessedly,  certain  spiritual  ends  are  to  be  gained  but  through 
the  auxiliary  agency  of  worldly  means,  then,  to  the  surer  gain 
ing  of  such  spiritual  ends,  the  example  of  worldly  policy  in 
worldly  projects  should  not  by  spiritual  projectors  be  slighted. 
In  brief,  the  conversion  of  the  heathen,  so  far,  at  least,  as 
depending  on  human  effort,  would,  by  the  world's  charity,  be 
let  out  on  contract.  So  much  by  bid  for  converting  India,  so 
much  for  Borneo,  so  much  for  Africa.  You  see,  this  doing 
good  in  the  world  by  driblets  is  just  nothing.  I  am  for  doing 
good  in  the  world  with  a  will.  I  am  for  doing  good  to  the 
world  once  for  all,  and  having  done  with  it.  Do  but  think  of 
the  eddies  and  maelstroms  of  pagans  in  China.  People  here 
have  no  conception  of  it.  Of  a  frosty  morning  in  Hong  Kong, 
pauper  pagans  are  found  dead  in  the  streets  like  so  many 
nipped  peas  in  a  bin  of  peas.  To  be  an  immortal  being  in 
China  is  no  more  distinction  than  to  be  a  snow-flake  in  a  snow- 
squall.  What  are  a  score  or  two  of  missionaries  to  such  a 
people  ?  I  am  for  sending  ten  thousand  missionaries  in  a  body 
and  converting  the  Chinese  en  masse  within  six  months  of  the 
debarkation.  The  thing  is  then  done,  and  turn  to  something 
else."  And  in  Clarel: 

"But  preach  and  work : 
You'll  civilise  the  barbarous  Turk — 
Nay,  all  the  East  may  reconcile: 
That  done,  let  Mammon  take  the  wings  of  even, 
And  mount  and  civilise  the  saints  in  heaven." 

But  when  Melville  was  in  Tahiti  he  harboured  less  emanci 
pated  notions  than  he  later  achieved.  He  was  then  to  all  out 
ward  seeming  little  better  than  a  beach-comber,  disciplined 
for  his  participation  in  a  mutiny  he  and  the  Long  Doctor 


228  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

had  ineffectively  tried  to  prevent,  and  in  the  end  abandoned 
by  his  ecclesiastical  guardians  to  drift  among  the  natives  of 
Tahiti,  and  to  find  his  way  back  home  any  way  he  could. 

The  authorities  at  Tahiti  left  the  party  at  the  Calabooza 
to  its  own  disintegration:  a  sore  on  the  island  cured  not  by 
surgery  but  by  neglect.  Gradually  the  mutineers  melted  out  of 
sight. 

With  the  Long  Doctor,  Melville  sailed  across  to  the  neigh 
bouring  island  of  Imeeo,  there  to  hire  themselves  out  as  field- 
labourers  to  two  South  Sea  planters :  one  a  tall,  robust  Yankee, 
born  in  the  backwoods  of  Maine,  sallow,  and  with  a  long 
face;  the  other,  a  short  florid  little  Cockney.  This  strange 
pair  had  cleared  about  thirty  acres  in  the  isolation  of  the  wild 
valley  of  Martair,  where  they  worked  with  invincible  energy, 
and  struggling  against  all  odds  to  farm  in  Polynesia,  and 
with  Heaven  knows  what  ideas  of  making  a  fortune  on  their 
crude  plantation. 

Melville  had  tried  farming  in  Pittsfield,  and  he  liked  the 
labour  even  less  in  Polynesia  than  he  did  in  Christendom.  The 
Long  Doctor  throve  not  at  all  hoeing  potatoes  under  a  tropical 
sun,  all  the  while  saying  masses  as  he  watered  the  furrows 
with  his  sweat.  Both  Melville  and  the  Long  Doctor  enjoyed 
the  hunt  they  took  in  the  wilds  of  the  mountains :  but  back 
to  the  mosquitoes,  the  sweet-potatoes,  and  the  hardships  of 
agriculture,  they  decided  to  launch  forth  again  upon  the  luck 
of  the  open  road.  What  clothes  they  had  were  useless  rags. 
So  barefooted,  and  garbed  like  comic  opera  brigands  or  men 
dicant  grandees,  they  started  out  on  a  tour  of  discovery  around 
the  island  of  Imeeo.  After  about  ten  days  of  pleasant  adven 
ture  and  hospitality  from  the  natives  they  arrived  at  Partoo- 
wye  to  be  accepted  into  the  household  of  an  aristocratic- 
looking  islander  named  Jeremiah  Po-Po,  and  his  wife  Arfretee. 
This  was  a  household  of  converts :  "Po-Po  was,  in  truth,  a 
Christian,'*  Melville  says:  "the  only  one,  Arfretee  excepted, 
whom  I  personally  knew  to  be  such,  among  all  the  natives  of 
Polynesia." 

Arfretee  fitted  out  Melville  and  the  Doctor  each  with  a 
new  sailor  frock  and  a  pair  of  trousers:  and  after  a  bath, 


MUTINY  AND  MISSIONARIES        229 

a  pleasant  dinner,  and  a  nap,  they  came  forth  like  a  couple 
of  bridegrooms. 

Melville  was  in  Partoowye,  as  guest  of  Po-Po,  for  about 
five  weeks.  At  that  time  it  was  believed  that  Queen  Pomare — 
who  was  then  in  poor  health  and  spirits,  and  living  in  retire 
ment  in  Partoowye — entertained  some  idea  of  making  a  stand 
against  the  French.  In  this  event,  she  would,  of  course,  be 
glad  to  enlist  all  the  foreigners  she  could.  Melville  and  the 
Long  Doctor  played  with  the  idea  of  being  used  by  Pomare  as 
officers,  should  she  take  to  warlike  measures.  But  in  this 
scheme  they  won  little  encouragement.  For  though  Pomare 
had,  previous  to  her  misfortunes,  admitted  to  her  levees  the 
humblest  sailor  who  cared  to  attend  upon  Majesty,  she  was, 
in  her  eclipse,  averse  to  receiving  calls. 

Shut  off  from  an  immediate  prospect  of  interviewing  Po 
mare,  Melville  improved  his  time  by  studying  the  native  life, 
and  by  visiting  a  whaler  in  the  harbour — the  Leviathan — tak 
ing  the  precaution  to  secure  himself  a  bunk  in  the  forecastle 
should  he  fail  of  a  four-poster  at  Court.  His  heart  warmed 
to  the  Leviathan  after  his  first  visit  of  inspection  on  board. 
"Like  all  large,  comfortable  old  whalers,  she  had  a  sort  of 
motherly  look : — broad  in  the  beam,  flush  decks,  and  four 
chubby  boats  hanging  at  her  breast."  The  food,  too,  was  prom 
ising.  "My  sheath-knife  never  cut  into  better  sea-beef.  The 
bread,  too,  was  hard,  and  dry,  and  brittle  as  glass;  and  there 
was  plenty  of  both."  The  mate  had  a  likeable  voice :  "hearing 
it  was  as  good  as  a  look  at  his  face."  But  Melville  still  clung 
to  the  hope  of  winning  the  ear  of  Pomare.  Although  there 
was,  Melville  says,  "a  good  deal  of  waggish  comrades'  non 
sense"  about  his  and  Long  Ghost's  expectation  of  court  prefer 
ment,  "we  nevertheless  really  thought  that  something  to  our 
advantage  might  turn  up  in  that  quarter." 

Pomare  was  then  upward  of  thirty  years  of  age;  twice 
stormily  married;  and  a  good  sad  Christian  again, — after 
lapses  into  excommunication ;  she  eked  out  her  royal  exchequer 
by  going  into  the  laundry  business,  publicly  soliciting,  by  her 
agents,  the  washing  of  the  linen  belonging  to  the  officers  of 
ships  touching  in  her  harbours.  Her  English  sister,  Queen 


230  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Victoria,  had  sent  her  a  very  showy  but  uneasy  headdress— 
a  crown.  Having  no  idea  of  reserving  so  pretty  a  bauble  for 
coronation  days,  which  came  so  seldom,  her  majesty  sported  it 
whenever  she  appeared  in  public.  To  show  her  familiarity 
with  European  customs,  she  touched  it  to  all  foreigners  of 
distinction — whaling  captains  and  the  like — whom  she  hap 
pened  to  meet  in  her  evening  walk  on  the  Broom  Road. 

Melville  discovered  among  Pomare's  retinue  a  Marquesan 
warrior,  Marbonna, — a  wild  heathen  who  scorned  the  vices 
and  follies  of  the  Christian  court  of  Tahiti  and  the  degen 
eracy  of  the  people  among  whom  fortune  had  thrown  him. 
Through  the  instrumentality  of  Marbonna,  who  officiated  as 
nurse  of  Pomare's  children,  Melville  and  the  Doctor  at  last 
found  themselves  admitted  into  the  palace  of  Pomare. 

"The  whole  scene  was  a  strange  one,"  Melville  says;  "but 
what  most  excited  our  surprise  was  the  incongruous  assem 
blage  of  the  most  costly  objects  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe. 
Superb  writing-desks  of  rosewood,  inlaid  with  silver  and 
mother-of-pearl;  decanters  and  goblets  of  cut  glass;  embossed 
volumes  of  plates;  gilded  candelabras;  sets  of  globes  and 
mathematical  instruments ;  laced  hats  and  sumptuous  garments 
of  all  sorts  were  strewn  about  among  greasy  calabashes  half- 
filled  with  poee,  rolls  of  old  tappa  and  matting,  paddles  and 
fish-spears.  A  folio  volume  of  Hogarth  lay  open,  with  a 
cocoanut  shell  of  some  musty  preparation  capsized  among 
the  miscellaneous  furniture  of  the  Rake's  apartment." 

While  Melville  and  the  Doctor  were  amusing  themselves  in 
this  museum  of  curiosities,  Pomare  entered,  unconscious  of 
the  presence  of  intruders. 

"She  wore  a  loose  gown  of  blue  silk,  with  two  rich  shawls, 
one  red,  the  other  yellow,  tied  about  her  neck.  Her  royal 
majesty  was  barefooted.  She  was  about  the  ordinary  size, 
rather  matronly;  her  features  not  very  handsome;  her  mouth 
voluptuous;  but  there  was  a  care-worn  expression  in  her 
face,  probably  attributable  to  her  late  misfortunes.  From 
her  appearance,  one  would  judge  her  about  forty;  but  she  is 
not  so  old.  As  the  Queen  approached  one  of  the  recesses,  her 
attendants  hurried  up,  escorted  her  in,  and  smoothed  the  mats 


MUTINY  AND  MISSIONARIES        231 

on  which  she  at  last  reclined.  Two  girls  soon  appeared,  car 
rying  their  mistress'  repast ;  and  then,  surrounded  by  cut  glass 
and  porcelain,  and  jars  of  sweetmeats  and  confections,  Pomare 
Vahinee  L,  the  titular  Queen  of  Tahiti,  ate  fish  and  poee  out 
of  her  native  calabashes,  disdaining  either  knife  or  spoon." 

The  interview  between  the  Queen  and  her  visitors  was 
brief.  Long  Ghost  strode  up  bravely  to  introduce  himself. 
The  natives  surrounding  the  Queen  screamed.  Pomare  looked 
up,  surprised  and  offended,  and  waved  the  Long  Doctor  and 
Melville  out  of  the  house.  Though  Melville  was  later  to  view 
a  South  American  King,  was  to  win  the  smile  of  Victoria  and 
meet  Lincoln,  Pomare  was  the  first  and  only  Polynesian  Queen 
he  ever  saw. 

Disappointed  at  going  to  court,  feeling  that  they  could  no 
longer  trespass  on  Po-Po's  hospitality,  "and  then,  weary  some 
what  of  life  in  Imeeo,  like  all  sailors  ashore,  I  at  last  pined 
for  the  billows." 

The  Captain  of  the  Leviathan — a  native  of  Martha's  Vine 
yard — was  unwilling  without  persuasion  to  accept  Melville, 
however.  What  with  Melville's  associations  with  Long  Ghost, 
and  the  British  sailor's  frock  Arfretee  had  given  him,  the  Cap 
tain  suspected  Melville  of  being  from  Sydney :  a  suspicion  not 
intended  as  flattery.  Unaccompanied  by  Long  Ghost,  Mel 
ville  finally  interviewed  the  Captain,  to  find  that  worthy  mel 
lowed  at  the  close  of  a  spirituous  dinner.  "After  looking  me 
in  the  eye  for  some  time,  and  by  so  doing,  revealing  an  obvious 
unsteadiness  in  his  own  visual  organs,  he  begged  me  to  reach 
forth  my  arm.  I  did  so ;  wondering  what  on  earth  that  useful 
member  had  to  do  with  the  matter  in  hand.  He  placed  his 
fingers  on  my  wrist;  and  holding  them  there  for  a  moment, 
sprang  to  his  feet;  and,  with  much  enthusiasm,  pronounced 
me  a  Yankee,  every  beat  of  my  pulse."  Another  bottle  was 
called,  which  the  captain  summarily  beheaded  with  the  stroke 
of  a  knife,  commanding  Melville  to  drain  it  to  the  bottom. 
"He  then  told  me  that  if  I  would  come  on  board  his  vessel  the 
following  morning,  I  would  find  the  ship's  articles  on  the 
cabin  transom.  ...  So,  hurrah  for  the  coast  of  Japan! 
Thither  the  ship  was  bound." 


232  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

The  Long  Doctor,  on  second  thought,  decided  to  eschew 
the  sea  for  a  space.  A  last  afternoon  was  spent  with  Po-Po 
and  his  family.  "About  nightfall,  we  broke  away  from  the 
generous-hearted  household  and  hurried  down  to  the  water. 
It  was  a  mad,  merry  night  among  the  sailors.  An  hour  or 
two  after  midnight,  everything  was  noiseless;  but  when  the 
first  streak  of  dawn  showed  itself  over  the  mountains,  a  sharp 
voice  hailed  the  forecastle,  and  ordered  the  ship  unmoored. 
The  anchors  came  up  cheerily;  the  sails  were  soon  set;  and 
with  the  early  breath  of  the  tropical  morning,  fresh  and  fra 
grant  from  the  hillsides,  we  slowly  glided  down  the  bay,  and 
we  swept  through  the  opening  in  the  reef." 

Melville  never  saw  or  heard  from  Long  Ghost  after  their 
parting  on  that  morning. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ON   BOARD   A    MAN-OF-WAR 

"Oh,  give  me  the  rover's  life — the  joy,  the  thrill,  the  whirl !  Let  me 
feel  thee  again,  old  sea!  let  me  leap  into  the  saddle  once  more.  I  am 
sick  of  these  terra  firma  toils  and  cares;  sick  of  the  dust  and  reek  of 
towns.  Let  me  hear  the  clatter  of  hailstones  on  icebergs.  Let  me  snuff 
thee  up,  sea-breeze !  and  whinny  in  thy  spray.  Forbid  it,  sea-gods !  inter 
cede  for  me  with  Neptune,  O  sweet  Amphitrite,  that  no  dull  clod  may 
fall  on  my  coffin !  Be  mine  the  tomb  that  swallowed  up  Pharaoh  and  all 
his  hosts ;  let  me  lie  down  with  Drake,  where  he  sleeps  in  the  sea." 

— HERMAN  MELVILLE:  White-Jacket. 

IN  1898,  there  appeared  the  Memories  of  a  Rear-Admiral 
Who  Has  Served  for  More  Than  Half  a  Century  in  the  Navy 
of  the  United  States.  S.  R.  Franklin,  the  author  of  this  vol 
ume,  had  lived  a  long  and  useful  life,  with  no  design  during 
his  years  of  activity,  it  would  seem,  of  bowing  himself  out  of 
the  world  as  a  man-of-letters.  But  in  the  leisure  of  elderly 
retirement,  he  was  persuaded  by  his  friends  to  get  rid  of  his 
reminiscences  once  for  all  by  putting  them  into  a  book.  Rear- 
Admiral  Franklin  took  an  inventory  of  his  rich  life,  and  ac 
cepted  the  challenge.  Had  he  not  roamed  about  the  globe 
since  he  was  sixteen  years  of  age?  And  he  had  known  a 
dozen  famous  Admirals,  three  Presidents,  three  Emperors,  two 
Popes,  five  Christian  Kings  and  a  properly  corresponding  num 
ber  of  Queens,  not  to  mention  a  whole  army  of  lesser  notables. 

In  1842,  as  midshipman  aboard  the  United  States  frigate, 
Franklin  cruised  the  Pacific.  The  United  States  stopped  at 
Honolulu,  touched  at  the  Marquesas.  Franklin  reports  that 
the  Bay  of  Nukuheva  "makes  one  of  the  most  beautiful  har 
bours  I  have  ever  seen.'*  But  upon  the  natives  he  bestowed 
the  contempt  of  a  civilised  man :  "for  the  Marquesans  were 
cannibals  of  the  worst  kind,  and  no  one  who  desired  to  escape 
roasting  ever  ventured  away  from  the  coast."  The  United 
States  did  not  remain  long  in  these  waters,  "where  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  look  at  a  lot  of  half-naked  savages."  So 

233 


234  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

off  sailed  the  frigate  to  Tahiti,  where  a  queen  came  aboard. 
But  Franklin  cannot  remember  whether  it  was  Pomare  or 
some  other  queen :  "Ladies  of  that  rank  were  not  uncommon 
in  those  days  in  the  South  Seas." 

Franklin  had  then  been  cruising  among  the  islands  of  the 
Pacific  for  some  months,  and  he  was  "not  sorry  when  the  time 
came  to  get  under  way  for  the  coast."  Men  of  Franklin's 
type  are  a  credit  to  civilisation :  men  proud  of  their  heritage, 
but  unobtrusive  in  their  pride.  Franklin  was  unmoved  by  any 
sanctimonious  hankering  to  improve  the  heathen,  or  by  any 
romantic  anxiety  to  ease  into  the  mud  of  barbarism.  "Savage 
and  half -civilised  life  becomes  very  irksome,"  he  says,  "when 
the  novelty  is  worn  off." 

"At  Tahiti,"  he  goes  on  to  state,  "we  picked  up  some  sea 
men  who  were  on  the  Consul's  hands.  They  were  entered  on 
the  books  of  the  ship,  and  became  a  portion  of  the  crew.  One 
of  the  number  was  Herman  Melville,  who  became  famous  aft 
erwards  as  a  writer  and  an  admiralty  lawyer.  He  had  gone 
to  sea  for  his  health,  and  found  himself  stranded  in  the  South 
Pacific.  I  do  not  remember  what  the  trouble  was,  but  he  and 
his  comrades  had  left  the  ship  of  which  they  were  a  portion 
of  the  crew.  Melville  wrote  a  book,  well  known  in  its  day, 
called  White-Jacket,  which  had  more  influence  in  abolishing 
corporal  punishment  in  the  Navy  than  anything  else.  This 
book  was  placed  on  the  desk  of  every  member  of  Congress, 
and  was  a  most  eloquent  appeal  to  the  humane  sentiment  of 
the  country.  As  an  evidence  of  the  good  it  did,  a  law  was 
passed  soon  after  the  book  appeared  abolishing  flogging  in  the 
Navy  absolutely,  without  substituting  any  other  mode  of  pun 
ishment  in  its  stead ;  and  this  was  exactly  in  accord  with  Mel 
ville's  appeal." 

"I  do  not  think  that  I  remember  Melville  at  all,"  Franklin 
goes  on  to  say;  "occasionally  will  flash  across  my  memory  a 
maintop-man  flitting  across  about  the  starboard  gangway  with 
a  white  jacket  on,  but  there  is  not  much  reality  in  the  picture 
which  it  presents  to  my  mind.  In  his  book  he  speaks  of  a 
certain  seaman,  Jack  Chase,  who  was  Captain  of  the  maintop, 
of  whom  I  have  a  very  distinct  recollection.  He  was  about 


ON  BOARD  A  MAN-OF-WAR          235 

as  fine  a  specimen  of  seaman  as  I  have  ever  seen  in  all  my 
cruising.  He  was  not  only  that,  but  he  was  a  man  of  intel 
ligence,  and  a  born  leader.  His  top-mates  adored  him,  al 
though  he  kept  them  up  to  the  mark,  and  made  every  man  do 
his  share  of  work.  Melville  has  given  him  considerable  space 
in  his  book,  and  seems  to  have  had  intense  admiration  for 
him.  He  mentions  also  a  number  of  officers  whom  it  is  not 
difficult  to  recognise.  The  Commanding  Officer,  who  had  a 
very  red  face,  he  called  Captain  Claret ;  a  small  but  very  ener 
getic  Midshipman,  who  made  himself  felt  and  heard  about 
the  decks,  he  called  Mr.  Pert;  the  Gunner  was  'Old  Com 
bustibles.'  He  gives  no  names,  but  to  any  one  who  served  in 
the  Frigate  United  States  it  was  easy  to  recognise  the  men  by 
their  sobriquets.  Melville  certainly  did  a  grand  work  in  bring 
ing  his  ability  as  a  writer  and  his  experience  as  a  seaman  to 
bear  upon  the  important  matter — I  mean  corporal  punishment 
r — which  had  been  the  subject  of  so  much  discussion  in  and 
out  of  Congress." 

The  essential  accuracy  of  Melville's  account  of  life  on  board 
the  Frigate  United  States  is  thus,  in  the  above  as  in  other  pas 
sages,  vouched  for  by  a  Rear-Admiral.  Franklin,  himself, 
however,  is  not  exhaustively  familiar  with  the  life  and  works 
of  Melville,  making  him  an  "admiralty  lawyer"  who  went  to 
sea  for  his  health.  And  according  to  Franklin's  account,  Mel 
ville  shipped  on  board  the  United  States  from  Tahiti.  Ac 
cording  to  Melville's  own  account,  he  left  Eimeo — from  the 
harbour  of  Tamai — not  on  board  a  man-of-war,  but  on  board 
an  American  whaler  bound  for  the  fishing  grounds  off  Japan. 

The  itinerary  of  Melville's  rovings  in  the  Pacific  after  he 
left  Tahiti  cannot  be  stated  with  any  detailed  precision.  In 
an  Appendix  to  the  American  edition  of  Typee,  Melville  says : 
"During  a  residence  of  four  months  at  Honolulu,  the  author 
was  in  the  confidence  of  an  Englishman  who  was  much  em 
ployed  by  his  lordship" — Sir  George  Paulet.  In  both  Typee 
and  Omoo  he  speaks  of  conditions  in  the  Sandwich  Islands 
with  the  familiarity  of  first-hand  observation.  The  Frigate 
United  States  sailed  from  Hampton  Roads  early  in  January, 
1842.  It  doubled  the  Horn  late  in  February,  and  joined  the 


236  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Pacific  squadron  at  Valparaiso.  After  spending  the  winter  of 
1842-3  off  Monterey,  the  United  States  returned  to  Callao  in 
the  spring,  and  sailed  for  Honolulu,  arriving  in  the  early  sum 
mer  of  1843.  According  to  his  own  account,  Melville  left 
Tahiti  in  the  autumn  of  1842.  The  United  States  left  Tahiti 
in  the  summer  of  1843.  Melville  speaks  of  revisiting  the  Mar 
quesas  and  Tahiti  after  the  experiences  recorded  in  Typee  and 
Omoo.  In  Typee  he  says :  "Between  two  and  three  years  after 
the  adventures  recorded  in  this  volume,  I  chanced,  while  aboard 
a  man-of-war,  to  touch  at  these  islands" — the  Marquesas. 
Though  in  this  statement  Melville  is  patently  careless  in  his 
chronology,  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  his  geography.  Ac 
cording  to  the  hypothesis  that  offers  fewest  difficulties — and 
none  of  these  at  all  serious — it  would  appear  that  Melville  left 
the  Society  Islands  in  the  autumn  of  1842,  on  board  a  whaler 
bound  for  the  coast  of  Japan,  to  arrive  in  Honolulu  some  time 
in  the  early  part  of  1843,  where,  according  to  Arthur  Sted- 
man,  he  was  "employed  as  a  clerk."  In  the  Introductory  Note 
to  White-Jacket  he  says:  "In  the  year  1843  I  shipped  as  'ordi 
nary  seaman'  on  board  a  United  States  frigate,  then  lying  in 
a  harbour  of  the  Pacific  Ocean.  After  remaining  in  the 
frigate  for  more  than  a  year,  I  was  discharged  from  the 
service  upon  the  vessel's  arrival  home."  Melville  was  dis 
charged  in  Boston,  in  October,  1844.  It  would  appear  that 
Melville  shipped  on  board  the  United  States,  from  Honolulu, 
in  the  summer  of  1843,  touching  again  at  the  Marquesas  and 
at  Tahiti,  and  returning  home  by  way  of  the  Peruvian  ports. 

Of  Melville's  experiences  between  the  time  of  his  leaving 
the  Society  Islands  and  that  of  his  homeward  cruise  as  a  sailor 
in  the  United  States  Navy,  nothing  is  known  beyond  the 
meagre  details  already  stated. 

In  White-Jacket;  or,  the  World  in  a  Man-of-War  (1850) 
Melville  has  left  a  fuller  account,  however,  of  his  experiences 
on  board  the  United  States.  The  opening  of  White-Jacket 
finds  Melville  at  Callao,  on  the  coast  of  Peru — the  last  har 
bour  he  touched  in  the  Pacific.  In  Typee  and  Omoo  he  had 
already  recounted  his  adventures  in  the  South  Seas,  with  all 
the  crispness  and  lucidity  of  fresh  discovery.  While  on  board 


ON  BOARD  A  MAN-OF-WAR  237 

the  United  States  he  returned  to  old  harbours,  and  sailed  past 
familiar  islands.  But  White-Jacket  is  not  a  Yarrow  Revisited. 

On  the  showing  of  White-Jacket,  Melville's  life  in  the  navy 
was,  perhaps,  the  happiest  period  in  his  life.  It  is  true  that 
in  Typee  he  wrote :  "I  will  frankly  confess  that  after  passing 
a  few  weeks  in  the  valley  of  the  Marquesas,  I  formed  a  higher 
estimate  of  human  nature  than  I  had  ever  before  entertained. 
But,  alas,  since  then  I  have  been  one  of  the  crew  of  a  man-of- 
war,  and  the  pent-up  wickedness  of  five  hundred  men  has 
nearly  overturned  all  my  previous  theories."  And  in  White- 
Jacket  he  has  many  a  very  dark  word  to  say  for  the  navy. 
Sailors,  as  a  class,  do,  of  course,  entertain  liberal  notions  con 
cerning  the  Decalogue;  but  in  this  they  resemble  landsmen, 
both  Christian  and  cannibal.  And  in  Melville's  day — as  be 
fore  and  after — from  a  frigate's  crew  might  be  culled  out  men 
of  all  callings  and  vocations,  from  a  backslidden  parson  to  a 
broken-down  comedian.  It  is  an  old  saying  that  "the  sea 
and  the  gallows  refuse  nothing."  But  withal,  more  than  one 
good  man  has  been  hanged.  "The  Navy,"  Melville  says,  "is 
the  asylum  for  the  perverse,  the  home  of  the  unfortunate. 
Here  the  sons  of  adversity  meet  the  children  of  calamity,  and 
here  the  children  of  calamity  meet  the  offspring  of  sin."  Ac 
cording  to  this  version,  a  typical  man-of-war  was  a  sort  of 
State  Prison  afloat.  "Wrecked  on  a  desert  shore,"  Melville 
says,  "a  man-of-war's  crew  could  quickly  found  an  Alexandria 
by  themselves,  and  fill  it  with  all  the  things  which  go  to  make 
up  a  capital."  The  United  States,  surely,  lacked  in  none  of  the 
contradictions  that  go  to  make  up  a  metropolis :  "though  boast 
ing  some  fine  fellows  here  and  there,  yet,  on  the  whole,  charged 
to  the  combings  of  hatchways  with  the  spirit  of  Belial  and 
unrighteousness."  Or  it  was  like  a  Parisian  lodging  house, 
turned  upside  down :  the  first  floor,  or  deck,  being  rented  by  a 
lord;  the  second  by  a  select  club  of  gentlemen;  the  third,  by 
crowds  of  artisans;  and  the  fourth — on  a  man-of-war  a  base 
ment  of  indefinite  depth,  with  ugly-looking  fellows  gazing  out 
at  the  windows — by  a  whole  rabble  of  common  people. 

The  good  or  bad  temper,  the  vices  and  virtues  of  men-of- 
war's  men  were  in  a  great  degree  attributable,  Melville  states, 


238  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

to  their  particular  stations  and  duties  aboard  ship.  Melville 
congratulated  himself  upon  enjoying  one  of  the  most  enviable 
posts  aboard  the  frigate.  It  was  Melville's  office  to  loose  the 
main-royal  when  all  hands  were  called  to  make  sail:  besides 
his  special  offices  in  tacking  ship,  coming  to  anchor,  and 
such  like,  he  permanently  belonged  to  the  starboard  watch, 
one  of  the  two  primary  grand  divisions  of  the  ship's  company. 
And  in  this  watch  he  was  a  main-top-man ;  that  is,  he  was  sta 
tioned  in  the  main-top,  with  a  number  of  other  seamen,  always 
in  readiness  to  execute  any  orders  pertaining  to  the  main-mast, 
from  above  the  main-yard.  In  Melville's  time,  the  tops  of  a 
frigate  were  spacious  and  cosy.  They  were  railed  in  behind 
so  as  to  form  a  kind  of  balcony,  that  looked  airily  down  upon 
the  blue,  boundless,  dimpled,  laughing,  sunny  sea,  and  upon 
the  landlopers  below  on  the  deck,  sneaking  about  among  the 
guns.  It  was  a  place,  too,  to  test  one's  manhood  in  rough 
weather.  From  twenty  to  thirty  loungers  could  agreeably  re 
cline  there,  cushioning  themselves  on  old  sails  and  jackets.  In 
being  a  main-top-man,  Melville  prided  himself  that  he  belonged 
to  a  fraternity  of  the  most  liberal-hearted,  lofty-minded,  gay, 
elastic,  and  adventurous  men  on  board  ship.  "The  reason  for 
their  liberal-heartedness  was,  that  they  were  daily  called  upon 
to  expatiate  themselves  all  over  the  rigging.  The  reason  for 
their  lofty-mindedness  was,  that  they  were  high  lifted  above 
the  petty  tumults,  carping  cares,  and  paltrinesses  of  the  decks 
below."  And  Melville  attributed  it  to  his  having  been  a  main- 
top-man,  and  that  in  the  loftiest  yard  of  the  frigate,  the  main- 
royal-yard,  "that  I  am  now  enabled  to  give  such  a  free,  broad, 
off-hand,  bird's-eye,  and  more  than  all,  impartial  account  of 
our  man-of-war  world;  withholding  nothing;  inventing  noth 
ing;  nor  flattering,  nor  scandalising  any;  but  meting  out  to 
all — commodore  and  messenger  boy  alike — their  precise  de 
scriptions  and  deserts." 

Melville  says  that  the  main-top-men,  with  amiable  vanity, 
accounted  themselves  the  best  seamen  in  the  ship;  brothers 
one  and  all,  held  together  by  a  strong  feeling  of  esprit  de  corps. 
Their  loyalty  was  especially  centred  in  their  captain.  Jack 
Chase — a  prime  favourite  and  an  oracle  among  the  men. 


ON  BOARD  A  MAN-OF-WAR  239 

Upon  Jack  Chase's  instigation  they  all  wore  their  hats  at  a 
peculiar  angle;  he  instructed  them  in  the  tie  of  their  neck 
handkerchiefs;  he  protested  against  their  wearing  vulgar 
dungaree  trousers;  he  gave  them  lessons  in  seamanship.  And 
he  solemnly  conjured  them,  with  unmitigated  detestation,  to 
eschew  the  company  of  any  sailor  suspected  of  having  served 
in  a  whaler.  On  board  the  United  States,  Melville  wisely  held 
his  peace  "concerning  stove  boats  on  the  coast  of  Japan." 

Melville's  admiration  for  Jack  Chase  was  perhaps  the  hap 
piest  wholehearted  surrender  he  ever  gave  to  any  human  being. 
Jack  Chase  was  "a  Briton  and  a  true-blue;  tall  and  well-knit, 
with  a  clear  open  eye,  a  fine  broad  brow,  and  an  abounding 
nut-brown  beard.  No  man  ever  had  a  better  heart  or  a  bolder. 
He  was  loved  by  the  seamen  and  admired  by  the  officers ;  and 
even  when  the  captain  spoke  to  him,  it  was  with  a  slight  air 
of  respect.  No  man  told  such  stories,  sang  such  songs,  or 
with  greater  alacrity  sprang  to  his  duty.  The  main-top,  over 
which  he  presided,  was  a  sort  of  oracle  of  Delphi ;  to  which 
many  pilgrims  ascended,  to  have  their  perplexities  or  difficulties 
settled."  Jack  was  a  gentleman.  His  manners  were  free  and 
easy,  but  never  boisterous ;  "he  had  a  polite,  courteous  way  of 
saluting  you,  if  it  were  only  to  borrow  a  knife.  He  had  read 
all  the  verses  of  Byron,  all  the  romances  of  Scott;  he  talked  of 
Macbeth  and  Ulysses;  but  above  all  things  was  he  an  ardent 
admirer  of  Camoen's  Lusiad,  part  of  which  he  could  recite  in 
the  original."  He  spoke  a  variety  of  tongues,  and  was  master 
of  an  incredible  richness  of  Byronic  adventure.  "There  was 
such  an  abounding  air  of  good  sense  and  good  feeling  about 
the  man  that  he  who  could  not  love  him,  would  thereby  pro 
nounce  himself  a  knave.  I  thanked  my  sweet  stars  that  kind 
fortune  had  placed  me  near  him,  though  under  him,  in  the 
frigate;  and  from  the  outset,  Jack  and  I  were  fast  friends. 
Wherever  you  may  be  now  rolling  over  the  blue  billows,  dear 
Jack,  take  my  best  love  along  with  you,"  Melville  wrote ;  "and 
God  bless  you,  wherever  you  go."  And  this  sentiment  Mel 
ville  cherished  throughout  his  life.  Almost  the  last  thing 
Melville  ever  wrote  was  the  dedication  of  his  last  novel,  Billy 
Budd — existing  only  in  manuscript,  and  completed  three 


240  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

months  before  his  death — to  "Jack  Chase,  Englishman,  wher 
ever  that  great  heart  may  now  be,  Here  on  earth  or  harboured 
in  Paradise,  Captain  in  the  war-ship  in  the  year  1843,  ^n  the 
U.  S.  Frigate  United  States." 

In  White- Jacket,  Melville  glows  with  the  same  superlative 
admiration  for  Jack  Chase  that  Ouida,  or  the  Duchess,  exhibit 
in  portraying  their  most  irresistible  cavaliers;  an  enthusiasm 
similar  to  that  of  Nietzsche's  for  his  tJbermensch.  So  con 
tagious  is  Melville's  love  for  his  ship-mate  that  strange  infec 
tions  seem  to  have  been  caught  therefrom.  Though  it  is  cer 
tainly  not  true  that  "all  the  world  loves  a  lover,"  Melville's 
affection  for  Jack  Chase  won  him  at  least  one  rather  star 
tling  proof  that  Shakespeare's  dictum  is  not  absolutely  false. 
The  proof  came  in  the  following  form: 

"No  2  Guthuee  Port,  Arbrooth  13  May  1857 
"Herman  Melville  Esquire 

"Author  of  the  white  Jacket  Mardi  and  others,  Honour'd 
Sir  Let  it  not  displease  you  to  be  addressed  by  a  stranger 
to  your  person  not  so  to  your  merits,  I  have  read  the  white 
jacket  with  much  pleasure  and  delight  'I  found  it  rich  in  wis 
dom  and  brilliant  with  beauty,  ships  and  the  sea  and  those 
who  plow  it  with  their  belongings  on  shore — those  subjects 
are  idintified  with  Herman  Melvil's  name  for  he  has  most 
unquestioneably  made  them  his  own,,  No  writer  not  even 
Marryat  himself  has  observed  them  more  closely  or  pictured 
them  more  impressively,  a  delightful  book  it  is.  I  long  ex 
ceedingly  to  read  Mardi,  but  how  or  where  to  obtain  it  is  the 
task?  I  have  just  now  received  an  invitation  to  cross  the 
Atlantic  from  a  Mr  and  Mrs  Weed  Malta  between  Bolston 
springs  and  Saratoga  Countie,  ,,  as  also  from  Mr  Alexer  Muler 
my  own  Cousin,  Rose  bank  Louistown 

"I  have  for  this  many  a  day  been  wishing  to  see  you  'to 
hear  you  speak  to  breath  the  same  air  in  which  you  dwell* 
Are  you  the  picture  of  him  you  so  powerfully  represent  as  the 
Master  piece  of  all  Gods  works  Jack  Chase? — 

"write  me  dear  sir  and  say  where  Omidi  'sto  be  gote,  I  do 
much  admire  the  American  Authors  Washington  Irver  Mrs 


ON  BOARD  A  MAN-OF-WAR  241 

Stowe  Allan  Edgar  Po  the  Late  James  Abbott  and  last  though 
not  least  your  good  self —  Did  you  ever  read  the  history  of 
Jeffery  Rudel  he  was  a  young  Noble  man  of  Provence  and 
reconed  one  of  the  handsomest  and  polite  persons  of  his  age. 
he  lived  in  the  time  of  Richard  the  first  sir  named  cour  de  Lion 
who  invited  Jeffery  to  his  court  and  it  was  there  he  first  heard 
of  the  beauty  wit,  learning  and  virtue  of  the  Countess  of 
Tripoly  by  which  he  became  so  enamoured  that  he  resolved 
upon  seeing  her  purchased  a  vesel  and  in  opesition  to  the  King 
and  the  luxury  of  a  Court  set  sail  for  Tripoly  the  obgect  of  his 
affections  realised  his  most  sanguine  expectations. 

"were  you  to  cross  the  atlantic  you  should  receive  a  cordeial 
reception  from  Mr  George  'Gordon  my-beloved  &  only  brother 
&  I'd  bid  you  welcome  to  old  s"t  Thomas  a  Becket  famed  for 
kindness  to  strangers. — 

"permite  me  Dear  Sir  to  subskribe  myself  your  friend  al 
though  unseen  and  at  a  Distance  "ELIZA  GORDON 
"Heaven  first  sent  letters, 

For  some  wretches  aid, 

Some  banished  Lover 

Or  some  Captive  maid 

"POPE." 

Besides  the  "Master  piece  of  all  Gods  works  Jack  Chase" 
and  his  comrades  of  the  main-top,  Melville  was  fortunate  in 
finding  a  few  other  ship-mates  to  admire.  There  was  Lems- 
ford,  "a  gentlemanly  young  member  of  the  after-guard,"  a 
poet,  to  whose  effusions  Melville  was  happy  to  listen.  "At  the 
most  unseasonable  hours  you  would  behold  him,  seated  apart, 
in  some  corner  among  the  guns — a  shot-box  before  him,  pen 
in  hand,  and  eyes  'in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling.'  Some  deemed  him 
a  conjurer;  others  a  lunatic.  The  knowing  ones  said  that  he 
must  be  a  crazy  Methodist."  Another  of  Melville's  friends 
was  Nord.  Before  Melville  knew  him,  he  "saw  in  his  eye  that 
the  man  had  been  a  reader  of  good  books ;  I  would  have  staked 
my  life  on  it,  that  he  had  seized  the  right  meaning  of  Mon 
taigne."  With  Nord,  Melville  "scoured  all  the  prairies  of 
reading;  dived  into  the  bosoms  of  authors,  and  tore  out  their 


242  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

hearts."  Melville's  friend  Williams  "was  a  thorough-going 
Yankee  from  Maine,  who  had  been  both  a  pedlar  and  a  peda 
gogue  in  his  day.  He  was  honest,  acute,  witty,  full  of  mirth 
and  good  humour — a  laughing  philosopher."  Beyond  these, 
Melville  was  chary  of  his  friendship,  despite  the  personal  inti 
macies  imposed  by  the  crowded  conditions  on  shipboard.  For 
living  on  board  a  man-of-war  is  like  living  in  a  market,  where 
you  dress  on  the  doorsteps  and  sleep  in  the  cellar. 

Yet  even  on  board  the  United  States  Melville  did  find  it 
possible  to  get  some  solitude.  "I  am  of  a  meditative  humour," 
he  says,  "and  at  sea  used  often  to  mount  aloft  at  night,  and, 
seating  myself  on  one  of  the  upper  yards,  tuck  my  jacket  about 
me  and  give  loose  to  reflection.  In  some  ships  in  which  I 
have  done  this,  the  sailors  used  to  fancy  that  I  must  be  study 
ing  astronomy — which,  indeed,  to  some  extent,  was  the  case. 
For  to  study  the  stars  upon  the  wide,  boundless  ocean,  is  divine 
as  it  was  to  the  Chaldean  Magi,  who  observed  their  revolutions 
from  the  plain." 

Melville  was  not  only  fortunate  in  his  friends  on  the  top, 
and  above,  but  also  in  the  mess  to  which  he  belonged :  "a  glori 
ous  set  of  fellows — Mess  No.  i ! — numbering,  among  the  rest, 
my  noble  Captain  Jack  Chase.  Out  of  a  pardonable  self- 
conceit  they  called  themselves  the  Forty-two-pounder  Club; 
meaning  that  they  were,  one  and  all,  fellows  of  large  intellec 
tual  and  corporeal  calibre." 

In  White-Jacket,  Melville's  purpose  was  to  present  the  varie 
gated  life  aboard  a  man-of-war;  to  give  a  vivid  sense  of  the 
complexity  of  the  typical  daily  existence  aboard  a  floating 
armed  city  inhabited  by  five  hundred  male  human  beings.  And 
no  one  else  has  ever  done  this  so  successfully  as  has  Melville. 
"I  let  nothing  slip,  however  small,"  he  says;  "and  feel  myself 
actuated  by  the  same  motive  which  has  prompted  many  worthy 
old  chroniclers  to  set  down  the  merest  trifles  concerning  things 
that  are  destined  to  pass  entirely  from  the  earth,  and  which,  if 
not  preserved  in  the  nick  of  time,  must  infallibly  perish  from 
the  memories  of  man.  Who  knows  that  this  humble  narrative 
may  not  hereafter  prove  the  history  of  an  obsolete  barbarism  ?" 
For  White-Jacket  is,  certainly,  written  with  no  intent  to  glorify 


ON  BOARD  A  MAN-OF-WAR  243 

war.  It  is  a  book  that  a  militaristic  country  would  do  well 
to  suppress.  "Courage,"  Melville  teaches  therein,  "is  the  most 
common  and  vulgar  of  the  virtues."  Of  a  celebrated  and 
dauntless  fighter  he  says:  "a  hero  in  this  world; — but  what 
would  they  have  called  him  in  the  next?"  "As  the  whole  mat 
ter  of  war  is  a  thing  that  smites  common  sense  and  Chris 
tianity  in  the  face,"  he  contends,  "so  everything  connected  with 
it  is  utterly  foolish,  unchristian,  barbarous,  brutal,  and  savour 
ing  of  the  Feejee  Islands,  cannibalism,  saltpetre,  and  the 
devil." 

But  Melville's  anti-militaristic  convictions  in  no  sense  per 
verted  his  astonishingly  vital  presentation  of  life  on  board 
the  United  States.  Though  in  contemplation  he  despised  war, 
and  was  open-eyed  to  the  abuses  and  iniquity  on  all  sides  of 
him  on  board  the  frigate ;  in  actual  fact  he  seems  to  have  been 
unusually  happy  as  a  sailor  in  the  navy,  among  his  comrades 
of  the  top.  The  predominant  mood  of  the  book  is  the  rollick 
ing  good-humour  of  high  animal  spirits. 

There  were  black  moments  in  his  pleasant  routine,  however : 
the  terrible  nipping  cold,  and  blasting  gales,  and  hurricanes  of 
sleet  and  hail  in  which  he  furled  the  main-sail  in  rounding  Cape 
Horn;  the  flogging  he  witnessed;  his  watches  at  the  cot  of  his 
mess-mate  Shenley  in  the  subterranean  sick-bay,  and  Shen- 
ley's  death  and  burial  at  sea;  the  barbarous  amputation  he 
witnessed,  and  the  death  of  the  sick  man  at  the  hands  of  the 
ship's  surgeon — a  scene  that  Flaubert  might  well  have  been 
proud  to  have  written.  And  there  were  ugly  experiences  dur 
ing  the  cruise  that  were  among  the  most  lurid  in  his  life. 

Throughout  the  cruise,  it  seems,  for  upward  of  a  year  he 
had  been  an  efficient  sailor,  alert  in  duties,  circumspect  in  his 
pleasures,  liked  and  respected  by  his  comrades.  The  ship 
homeward  bound,  and  he  within  a  few  weeks  of  being  a  free 
man,  he  heard  the  boatswain's  mate  bawling  his  name  at  all 
the  hatchways  and  along  the  furtherest  recesses  of  the  ship: 
the  Captain  wanted  him  at  the  mast.  Melville's  heart  jumped 
to  his  throat  at  the  summons,  as  he  hurriedly  asked  Fluke,  the 
boatswain's  mate  at  the  fore-hatchway,  what  was  wanted 
of  him. 


244  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

"Captain  wants  you  at  the  mast/'  Fluke  replied.  "Going 
to  flog  ye,  I  guess." 

"For  what?" 

"My  eyes!  you've  been  chalking  your  face,  hain't  ye?" 

Swallowing  down  his  heart,  he  saw,  as  he  passed  through 
the  gangway  to  the  dread  tribunal  of  the  frigate,  the  quarter 
master  rigging  the  gratings ;  the  boatswain  with  his  green  bag 
of  scourges;  the  master-at-arms  ready  to  help  off  some  one's 
shirt.  On  the  charge  of  a  Lieutenant,  Melville  was  accused  by 
the  Captain  of  failure  in  his  duty  at  his  station  in  the  star 
board  main-lift :  a  post  to  which  Melville  had  never  known 
he  was  assigned.  His  solemn  disclaimer  was  thrown  in  his 
teeth,  and  for  a  thing  utterly  unforeseen,  and  for  a  crime  of 
which  he  was  utterly  innocent,  he  was  about  to  be  flogged. 

"There  are  times  when  wild  thoughts  enter  a  man's  breast, 
when  he  seems  almost  irresponsible  for  his  act  and  his  deed," 
writes  the  grandson  of  General  Peter  Gansevoort.  "The  Cap 
tain  stood  on  the  weather-side  of  the  deck.  Sideways,  on  an 
unobstructed  line  with  him,  was  the  opening  of  the  lee- 
gangway,  where  the  side-ladders  are  suspended  in  port.  Noth 
ing  but  a  slight  bit  of  sinnate-stuff  served  to  rail  in  this 
opening,  which  was  cut  right  to  the  level  of  the  Captain's  feet, 
showing  the  far  sea  beyond.  I  stood  a  little  to  windward  of 
him,  and,  though  he  was  a  large,  powerful  man,  it  was  certain 
that  a  sudden  rush  against  him,  along  the  slanting  deck,  would 
infallibly  pitch  him  headforemost  into  the  ocean,  though  he 
who  so  rushed  must  needs  go  over  with  him.  My  blood 
seemed  clotting  in  my  veins;  I  felt  icy  cold  at  the  tips  of  my 
fingers,  and  a  dimness  was  before  my  eyes.  But  through  that 
dimness  the  boatswain's  mate,  scourge  in  hand,  loomed  like  a 
giant,  and  Captain  Claret,  and  the  blue  sea  seen  through  the 
opening  at  the  gangway,  showed  with  an  awful  vividness.  I 
cannot  analyse  my  heart,  though  it  then  stood  still  within  me. 
But  the  thing  that  swayed  me  to  my  purpose  was  not  alto 
gether  the  thought  that  Captain  Claret  was  about  to  degrade 
me,  and  that  I  had  taken  an  oath  with  my  soul  that  he  should 
not.  No,  I  felt  my  man's  manhood  so  bottomless  within  me, 
that  no  word,  no  blow,  no  scourge  of  Captain  Claret  could 


ON  BOARD  A  MAN-OF-WAR  245 

cut  me  deep  enough  for  that.  I  but  swung  to  an  instinct 
within  me — the  instinct  diffused  through  all  animated  nature, 
the  same  that  prompts  even  a  worm  to  turn  under  the  heel. 
The  privilege,  inborn  and  inalienable,  that  every  man  has  of 
dying  himself,  and  inflicting  death  upon  another,  was  not 
given  to  us  without  a  purpose." 

Captain  Claret  ordered  Melville  to  the  grating.  The  ghost 
of  Peter  Gansevoort,  awakening  in  Melville,  measured  the  dis 
tance  between  Captain  Claret  and  the  sea. 

"Captain  Claret,"  said  a  voice  advancing  from  the  crowd. 
Melville  turned  to  see  who  this  might  be  that  audaciously 
interrupted  at  a  juncture  like  this.  It  was  a  corporal  of 
marines,  who  speaking  in  a  mild,  firm,  but  extremely  deferen 
tial  manner,  said :  "I  know  that  man,  and  I  know  that  he  would 
not  be  found  absent  from  his  station  if  he  knew  where  it  was." 
This  almost  unprecedented  speech  inspired  Jack  Chase  also 
to  intercede  in  Melville's  behalf.  But  for  these  timely  inter 
cessions,  it  is  very  likely  that  Melville  would  have  ended  that 
day  as  a  suicide  and  a  murderer.  There  is  no  lack  of  evidence, 
both  in  his  writings  and  in  the  personal  recollections  of  him 
that  survive,  that  the  headlong  violence  of  his  passion,  when 
deeply  stirred,  balked  at  no  extremity.  And  that  day  as  the 
scourge  hung  over  him  for  an  offence  he  had  not  committed, 
he  seems  to  have  been  as  murderously  roused  as  at  any  other 
known  moment  in  his  life.  Though  hating  war,  he  boasted 
"the  inalienable  right  to  kill" :  and  the  ghost  of  Mow-Mow, 
at  the  day  of  final  reckoning,  can  attest  that  this  boast  was  not 
lightly  given.  Like  the  whaling  Quakers  that  he  so  much 
admired,  he  was  "a  pacifist  with  a  vengeance." 

This  scene  happened  during  the  run  of  the  United  States 
from  Rio  to  the  Line.  At  Rio,  Melville  had  gone  ashore  with 
Jack  Chase  and  a  few  other  discreet  and  gentlemanly  top-men. 
But  of  the  dashing  adventures — if  any — that  they  had  on  land, 
Melville  is  silent :  "my  man-of-war  alone  must  supply  me  with 
the  staple  of  my  matter,"  he  says;  "I  have  taken  an  oath  to 
keep  afloat  to  the  last  letter  of  my  narrative." 

In  so  far  as  fine  weather  and  the  ship's  sailing  were  con 
cerned,  the  whole  run  from  Rio  to  the  Line  was  one  delightful 


246  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

yachting.  Especially  pleasant  to  Melville  during  this  run  were 
his  quarter  watches  in  the  main-top.  Removed  from  the  im 
mediate  presence  of  the  officers,  he  and  his  companions  could 
there  enjoy  themselves  more  than  in  any  other  part  of  the 
ship.  By  day,  many  of  them  were  industrious  making  hats 
or  mending  clothes.  But  by  night  they  became  more  romanti 
cally  inclined.  Seen  from  this  lofty  perch,  of  moonlight 
nights,  the  frigate  must  have  been  a  glorious  sight.  "She  was 
going  large  before  the  wind,  her  stun'-sails  set  on  both  sides, 
so  that  the  canvases  on  the  main-mast  and  fore-mast  presented 
the  appearance  of  two  majestic,  tapering  pyramids,  more  than 
a  hundred  feet  broad  at  the  base,  and  terminating  in  the  clouds 
with  the  light  cope-stone  of  the  royals.  That  immense  area 
of  snow-white  canvas  sliding  along  the  sea  was  indeed  a  mag 
nificent  spectacle.  The  three  shrouded  masts  looked  like  the 
apparition  of  three  gigantic  Turkish  Emirs  striding  over  the 
ocean."  From  there,  too,  the  band,  playing  on  the  poop,  would 
tempt  them  to  dance ;  Jack  Chase  would  well  up  into  song  dur 
ing  silent  intervals :  songs  varied  by  sundry  yarns  and  twisters 
of  the  top-men. 

One  pleasant  midnight,  after  the  United  States  had  crossed 
the  Line  and  was  running  on  bravely  somewhere  off  the  coast 
of  Virginia,  the  breeze  gradually  died,  and  an  order  was  given 
to  set  the  main-top-gallant-stun'-sail.  The  halyards  not  being 
rove,  Jack  Chase  assigned  to  Melville  that  eminently  difficult 
task.  That  this  was  a  business  demanding  unusual  sharp- 
sightedness,  skill,  and  celerity  is  evident  when  it  is  remembered 
that  the  end  of  a  line,  some  two  hundred  feet  long,  was  to  be 
carried  aloft  in  one's  teeth  and  dragged  far  out  on  the  giddiest 
of  yards,  and  after  being  wormed  and  twisted  about  through 
all  sorts  of  intricacies,  was  to  be  dropped,  clear  of  all  obstruc 
tions,  in  a  straight  plumb-line  right  down  to  the  deck. 

"Having  reeved  the  line  through  all  the  inferior  blocks," 
Melville  says,  "I  went  out  to  the  end  of  the  weather-top-gallant- 
yard-arm,  and  was  in  the  act  of  leaning  over  and  passing  it 
through  the  suspended  jewel-block  there,  when  the  ship  gave  a 
plunge  in  the  sudden  swells  of  the  calm  sea,  and  pitching  me 
still  further  over  the  yard,  threw  the  heavy  skirts  of  my  jacket 


ON  BOARD  A  MAN-OF-WAR  247 

right  over  my  head,  completely  muffling  me.  Somehow  I 
thought  it  was  the  sail  that  had  flapped,  and  under  that  impulse 
threw  up  my  hands  to  drag  it  from  my  head,  relying  upon  the 
sail  itself  to  support  me  meanwhile.  Just  then  the  ship  gave 
another  jerk,  and  head  foremost  I  pitched  over  the  yard.  I 
knew  where  I  was,  from  the  rush  of  air  by  my  ears,  but  all 
else  was  a  nightmare.  A  bloody  film  was  before  my  eyes, 
through  which,  ghost-like,  passed  and  repassed  my  father, 
mother,  and  sisters.  An  unutterable  nausea  oppressed  me;  I 
was  conscious  of  groping;  there  seemed  no  breath  in  my  body. 
It  was  over  one  hundred  feet  that  I  fell — down,  down,  with 
lungs  collapsed  as  in  death.  Ten  thousand  pounds  of  shot 
seemed  tied  to  my  head,  as  the  irresistible  law  of  gravitation 
dragged  me,  head  foremost  and  straight  as  a  die,  towards  the 
infallible  centre  of  the  terrequeous  globe.  All  I  had  seen,  and 
read,  and  heard,  and  all  that  I  had  thought  and  felt  in  my 
life — seemed  intensified  in  one  fixed  idea  in  my  soul.  But 
dense  as  this  idea  was,  it  was  made  up  of  atoms.  Having 
fallen  from  the  projecting  yard-arm  end,  I  was  conscious  of  a 
collected  satisfaction  in  feeling,  that  I  should  not  be  dashed  on 
the  deck,  but  would  sink  into  the  speechless  profound  of  the 
sea. 

"With  the  bloody,  blind  film  before  my  eyes,  there  was  a 
still  stranger  hum  in  my  head,  as  if  a  hornet  were  there;  and 
I  thought  to  myself,  Great  God!  this  is  Death!  Yet  these 
thoughts  were  unmixed  with  alarm.  Like  frost-work  that 
flashes  and  shifts  its  scared  hues  in  the  sun,  all  my  braided, 
blended  emotions  were  in  themselves  icy  cold  and  calm. 

"So  protracted  did  my  fall  seem,  that  I  can  even  now  recall 
the  feeling  of  wondering  how  much  longer  it  would  be,  ere 
all  was  over  and  I  struck.  Time  seemed  to  stand  still,  and  all 
the  worlds  seemed  poised  on  their  poles,  as  I  fell,  soul- 
becalmed,  through  the  eddying  whirl  and  swirl  of  the  Mael 
strom  air. 

"At  first,  as  I  have  said,  I  must  have  been  precipitated  head 
foremost;  but  I  was  conscious,  at  length,  of  a  swift,  flinging 
motion  of  my  limbs,  which  involuntarily  threw  themselves  out, 
so  that  at  last  I  must  have  fallen  in  a  heap.  This  is  more 


248  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

likely,  from  the  circumstance  that  when  I  struck  the  sea,  I 
felt  as  if  some  one  had  smote  me  slantingly  across  the  shoulder 
and  along  part  of  my  right  side. 

"As  I  gushed  into  the  sea,  a  thunder-boom  sounded  in  my 
ear;  my  soul  seemed  flying  from  my  mouth.  The  feeling  of 
death  flooded  over  me  with  the  billows.  The  blow  from  the 
sea  must  have  turned  me,  so  that  I  sank  almost  feet  foremost 
through  a  soft,  seething,  foamy  lull.  Some  current  seemed 
hurrying  me  away;  in  a  trance  I  yielded,  and  sank  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  glide.  Purple  and  pathless  was  the  deep 
calm  now  around  me,  flecked  by  summer  lightnings  in  an  azure 
afar.  The  horrible  nausea  was  gone;  the  bloody,  blind  film 
turned  a  pale  green;  I  wondered  whether  I  was  yet  dead,  or 
still  dying.  But  of  a  sudden  some  fashionless  form  brushed 
my  side — some  inert,  coiled  fish  of  the  sea;  the  thrill  of  being 
alive  again  tingled  in  my  nerves,  and  the  strong  shunning  of 
death  shocked  me  through. 

"For  one  instant  an  agonising  revulsion  came  over  me  as 
I  found  myself  utterly  sinking.  Next  moment  the  force  of  my 
fall  was  expended;  and  there  I  hung,  vibrating  in  the  mid- 
deep.  What  wild  sounds  then  rang  in  my  ear!  One  was  a 
soft  moaning,  as  of  low  waves  on  the  beach;  the  other  wild 
and  heartlessly  jubilant,  as  of  the  sea  in  the  height  of  a 
tempest.  Oh  soul!  thou  then  heardest  life  and  death:  as  he 
who  stands  upon  the  Corinthian  shore  hears  both  the  Ionian 
and  the  ^Egean  waves.  The  life-and-death  poise  soon  passed; 
and  then  I  found  myself  slowly  ascending,  and  caught  a  dim 
glimmering  of  light.  Quicker  and  quicker  I  mounted;  till  at 
last  I  bounded  up  like  a  buoy,  and  my  whole  head  was  bathed 
in  the  blessed  air." 

With  his  knife,  Melville  ripped  off  his  jacket,  struck  out 
boldly  towards  the  elevated  pole  of  one  of  the  life-buoys 
which  had  been  cut  away,  and  was  soon  after  picked  up  by 
one  of  the  cutters  from  the  frigate. 

"Ten  minutes  after,  I  was  safe  on  board,  and,  springing 
aloft,  was  ordered  to  reeve  anew  the  stun '-sail -halyards,  which, 
slipping  through  the  blocks  when  I  had  let  go  the  end,  had 
unrove  and  fallen  to  the  deck."  Amphitrite  had,  indeed,  in- 


ON  BOARD  A  MAN-OF-WAR  249 

terceded  with  Neptune,  and  the  sea-gods  strove  to  answer 
Melville's  prayer.  But  Melville  always,  even  in  the  lowest 
abyss  of  despair,  clung  passionately  to  life.  And  the  night 
he  was  hurled  from  the  mast  he  was  hurled  from  among 
friends,  and  into  waters  that  washed  the  neighbouring  shores 
of  his  birth. 

Melville's  long  wanderings  were  nearly  at  an  end.  With 
the  home  port  believed  to  be  broad  on  their  bow,  under  the 
stars  and  a  meagre  moon  in  her  last  quarter,  the  main-top-men 
gathered  aloft  in  the  top,  and  round  the  mast  they  circled, 
"hand  in  hand,  all  spliced  together.  We  had  reefed  the  last 
top-sail;  trained  the  last  gun;  blown  the  last  match;  bowed 
to  the  last  blast ;  been  tranced  in  the  last  calm.  We  had  mus 
tered  our  last  round  the  capstan;  been  rolled  to  grog  the  last 
time;  for  the  last  time  swung  in  our  hammocks;  for  the  last 
time  turned  out  at  the  sea-gull  call  of  the  watch.  We  had  seen 
our  last  man  scourged  at  the  gangway ;  our  last  man  gasp  out 
the  ghost  in  the  stifling  sick-bay;  our  last  man  tossed  to  the 
sharks." 

And  there  Melville  has  left  this  brother  band — with  the 
anchor  still  hanging  from  the  Bow — with  the  land  still  out 
of  sight.  "I  love  an  indefinite  infinite  background,"  he  says, — 
"a  vast,  heaving,  rolling,  mysterious  rear!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

INTO   THE   RACING   TIDE 

"As  the  vine  flourishes,  and  the  grape  empurples  close  up  to  the  very 
walls  and  muzzles  of  cannoned  Ehrenbreitstein ;  so  do  the  sweetest  joys 
of  life  grow  in  the  very  jaws  of  its  peril." — HERMAN  MELVILLE:  Pierre. 

"UNTIL  I  was  twenty-five/'  Melville  once  wrote  to  Haw 
thorne,  "I  had  no  development  at  all."  When  the  cable  and 
anchor  of  the  United  States  were  all  clear,  and  when  he 
bounded  ashore  on  his  native  soil,  Melville  was  in  his  twenty- 
fifth  year.  "From  my  twenty-fifth  year/'  he  wrote  Haw 
thorne,  "I  date  my  life." 

His  three  years  of  wandering,  crowded  as  they  were  with 
alienating  experiences,  had,  of  course,  worked  deep  changes  in 
him :  changes  more  radical  than  in  the  dizzy  whirl  of  strangely 
peopled  adventures  it  was  possible  for  him  to  gauge.  In  mem 
ory,  the  fitful  fever  of  the  past,  deceitfully  seems  to  strive  not. 
But  we  delude  ourselves  when  we  fancy  that  it  sleeps  well. 
During  his  far  drif tings,  Melville  had  clung  reverently  to 
thoughts  of  home,  his  imagination  treacherously  caressing 
those  very  scenes  whose  intimate  contact  had  filled  him  with 
revulsion.  "Do  men  ever  hate  the  thing  they  love?"  he  asks 
in  White- Jacket,  perplexed  at  the  paradox  of  this  perpetual 
recoil.  He  was  eternally  looking  both  before  and  after,  but 
never  with  the  smug  and  genial  after-dinner  optimism  of  Rabbi 
Ben  Ezra.  The  insufficient  present  was  always  poisoned,  to 
him,  by  bitter  margins  of  pining  and  regret.  In  headlong 
escape  from  his  household  gods  he  had  been  landed  among 
South  Sea  islands  that  in  retrospect  he  viewed  as  "authentic 
Edens."  Yet  even  in  Paradise  did  he  feel  himself  an  exile, 
teaching  old  Marheyo  to  say  "Home"  and  "Mother,"  con 
verting  into  sacred  words  the  countersigns  of  a  former  Hell. 
He  tells  in  White-Jacket,  how,  with  the  smell  of  tar  in  his 
nostrils,  out  of  sight  of  land,  with  a  stout  ship  under  his 

250 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  251 

feet,  and  snuffing  the  ocean  air,  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of 
the  deep,  during  the  long  night  watches  used  to  come  throng 
ing  about  his  heart  "holy  home  associations."  And  he  closes 
White-Jacket  with  the  reflection  that  "Life's  a  voyage  that's 
homeward-bound !"  But  he  sailed  with  sealed  orders. 

Of  Melville's  impressions  upon  his  return  he  has  left  no 
record.  During  his  three  years  of  whaling  and  captivity 
among  cannibals,  and  mutiny,  and  South  Sea  drif tings,  and 
adventures  in  the  Navy,  life  at  home  had  gone  along  in  its 
regular  necessary  way;  and  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  despite 
their  transformation  in  his  memory,  lived  on  in  solid  fact  un 
changed.  The  identical  trees  in  the  Boston  Ccmmon  blotted 
out  the  same  patterns  against  the  New  England  stars;  none 
of  the  streets  had  swerved  from  off  their  prim  and  angular 
respectability.  His  mother  he  found  living  in  Lansingburg, 
just  out  from  Albany,  N.  Y.  There  was  the  same  starched 
calico  smell  to  his  sister's  dresses,  the  same  clang-tint  to  his 
mother's  voice.  Such  was  the  calibre  of  his  imagination,  that 
he  must  have  found  life  at  Lansingburg  unbelievably  like  he 
knew  it  must  be,  yet  very  different  from  what  he  was  prepared 
to  find. 

His  brothers  must  have  first  appeared  intimate  strangers 
to  him.  His  elder  brother,  Gansevoort,  had  given  up  his  hat 
and  fur  shop,  was  well  established  in  law  and  had  won  a 
creditable  name  for  himself  in  politics.  His  younger  brother, 
Allan,  was  beginning  a  successful  legal  career,  with  his  name 
emblazoned  on  a  door  at  10  Wall  Street.  Maria  was,  after 
all,  a  Gansevoort ;  she  was  not  too  proud  to  keep  her  brothers 
reminded  that  she  had  borne  sons.  Melville's  youngest 
brother,  Tom,  had  sprung  from  boyhood  into  the  self-conscious 
maturity  of  youth. 

From  vagabondage  in  Polynesia  to  the  stern  yoke  of  self- 
supporting  citizenship  was  a  dizzy  transition.  But  Melville 
did  not  clear  it  at  a  bound.  The  very  violence  of  the  impact 
between  the  two  antipodal  types  of  experience  for  a  time  must 
have  stunned  Melville  to  their  incompatibility.  Tanned  with 
sea-faring,  exuberant  in  health,  rosy  with  the  after-glow  of 
his  proud  companionship  with  Jack  Chase,  and  the  respect 


252  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

and  affection  he  had  won  from  his  associates  on  board  the 
United  States,  he  was  effulgent  with  amazing  tales — the  envia 
ble  hero  of  endless  incredible  adventures.  His  home-coming 
may  well  have  been  not  only  a  staggering,  but  a  joyous  adven 
ture.  For  he  entered  Lansingburg  trailing  clouds  of  glory. 
He  was  panoplied  in  romance;  and  though  bodily  he  was  in 
a  suburb  of  Albany,  his  companion  image  was  the  distant  ad 
venturer  he  saw  mirrored  in  the  admiring  and  jealous  imagina 
tion  of  his  friends.  With  what  melancholy — if  any — he 
viewed  this  reflected  image,  and  to  what  degree  he  was, 
Narcissus-wise,  conscious  of  its  irony,  we  do  not  know.  But 
if  Typee  and  Omoo  be  any  index  of  his  mood,  he  returned 
home  happier  and  wholesomer  than  at  any  other  period  of  his 
life.  Before  many  years,  unsolved  problems  of  his  youth 
were  to  reassert  themselves,  heightened  in  difficulty  and  in 
pertinacity.  Yet  for  a  time,  at  least,  so  it  would  appear,  he 
reaped  very  substantial  benefits  from  his  escape  beyond  civilisa 
tion. 

According  to  J.  E.  A.  Smith,  Melville  was  soon  beset  by  his 
enthralled  and  wide-eyed  friends  to  put  his  experiences  into 
a  book.  Even  if  such  a  challenge  had  never  been  made,  it  is 
difficult  to  see  how  Melville  could  have  escaped  plunging  into 
literature.  For  the  hankering  for  letters  had  earlier  stirred 
in  Melville's  blood, — a  hankering  that  he  had  before  succumbed 
to,  swathing  a  vacuity  of  experience  in  the  grave-wrappings 
of  rhetoric  and  prolixity.  Now  he  was  rich  in  matter;  be 
cause  of  the  very  straitened  circumstances  of  his  family,  he 
was  faced  again  by  the  necessity  of  earning  some  money  if  he 
stayed  at  home ;  and  in  so  far  as  we  know,  he  was  untempted 
to  venture  forth  either  as  vagabond  or  efficiency  expert. 

Soon  after  his  arrival  home  he  must  have  settled  down  to 
composition.  For  the  manuscript  of  Typee  was  bought  in 
London  by  John  Murray,  by  an  agreement  dated  December, 

1845. 

At  the  time  of  the  completion  of  Typee,  Melville's  brother, 
Gansevoort,  was  starting  for  London  as  Secretary  to  the 
American  Legation  under  Minister  McLane.  Gansevoort 
threw  Typee  in  among  his  luggage,  to  try  its  luck  among  Brit- 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  253 

ish  publishers.  Whether  Typee  had  previously  been  refused 
in  the  United  States  has  not  yet  transpired.  In  any  event, 
John  Murray  bought  the  English  rights  to  print  a  thousand 
copies  of  Typee  —  a  purchase  that  cost  him  £100.  Murray  did 
not  close  the  sale,  however,  until  he  was  assured  that  Typee 
was  a  sober  account  of  actual  experiences.  Typee  appeared 
in  two  parts  in  Murray's  "Colonial  and  Home  Library."  Part 
I  appeared  on  February  26,  1846;  Part  II  on  April  i  of  the 
same  year. 

Encouraged  by  the  temerity  of  John  Murray,  Wiley  and 
Putnam  of  New  York  bought  the  American  rights  for  Typee. 
And  by  an  agreement  made  in  England,  Typee  appeared  simul 
taneously  in  New  York  and  London  :  in  America  under  the 
title,  Typee,  a  Peep  at  Polynesian  Life  During  Four  Months' 
Residence  in  a  Valley  of  the  Marquesas.  In  1849,  Harper 
Brothers  took  over  Typee,  and  issued  it  shorn  of  some  of  the 
passages  the  Missionaries  had  found  most  objectionable.  Up 
to  January  i,  1849,  Wiley  and  Putnam  had  sold  6,392  copies  of 
Typee:  a  sale  upon  which  Melville  gained  $655.91.  Up  to 
April  29,  1851,  7,437  copies  of  Typee  had  been  sold  in  Eng 
land,  netting  Melville,  if  accounts  surviving  in  Allan's  hand 
be  correct,  $708.40. 

Under  the  date  of  April  3,  1846  —  two  days  after  the  appear 
ance  in  England  of  Part  II  of  Typee,  Gansevoort  wrote  Mel 
ville  the  following  letter  —  the  last  letter,  it  appears,  he  ever 
wrote  : 


DEAR  HERMAN  : 
"Herewith  you  have  copy  of  the  arrangement  with  Wiley  & 
Putnam  for  the  publication  in  the  U.  S.  of  your  work  on  the 
Marquesas.  The  letter  of  W.  &  P.  under  date  of  Jan.  I3th  is 
the  result  of  a  previous  understanding  between  Mr.  Putnam 
and  myself.  As  the  correspondence  speaks  for  itself,  it  is 
quite  unnecessary  to  add  any  comment.  By  the  steamer  of 
to-morrow  I  send  to  your  address  several  newspaper  comments 
and  critiques  of  your  book.  The  one  in  the  Sun  was  written 
by  a  gentleman  who  is  very  friendly  to  myself,  and  who  may 
possibly  for  that  reason  have  made  it  unusually  eulogistic. 


254  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

"Yours  of  Feb.  28  was  rec'd  a  few  days  ago  by  the  daily 
packet  from  Joshua  Bates.  I  am  happy  to  learn  by  it  that 
the  previous  intelligence  transmitted  by  me  was  'gratifying 
enough.'  I  am  glad  that  you  continue  busy,  and  on  my  next  or 
the  after  that  will  venture  to  make  some  suggestions  about 
your  next  book.  In  a  former  letter  you  informed  me  that 
Allan  had  sent  you  $100  home,  the  fruit  of  my  collection.  (I 
refer  to  the  money  sent  at  your  request).  It  appears  that  this 
was  not  so,  for  Allan  informs  me  that  the  $100  was  part  of  the 
£90  s  10 — making  £100  which  I  sent  out  by  the  Jan.  2 
Steamer.  Allan  seems  to  find  it  entirely  too  much  trouble  to 
send  me  the  monthly  accounts  of  receipts  and  disbursements. 
I  have  received  no  accounts  from  him  later  than  up  to  Nov. 
3Oth  and  consequently  am  in  a  state  of  almost  entire  ignorance 
as  to  what  is  transpiring  at  No.  10,  Wall  Street.  This  is  very 
unthinking  in  him,  for  my  thoughts  are  so  much  at  home  that 
much  of  my  time  is  spent  in  disquieting  apprehensions  as  to 
matters  &  things  there.  I  continue  to  live  within  my  income, 
but  to  do  so  am  forced  to  live  a  life  of  daily  self-denial.  I  do 
not  find  my  health  improved  by  the  sedentary  life  I  have  to 
lead  here.  The  climate  is  too  damp  &  moist  for  me.  I  some 
times  fear  I  am  gradually  breaking  up.  If  it  be  so — let  it  be — 
God's  will  be  done.  I  have  already  seen  about  as  much  of 
London  society  as  I  care  to  see.  It  is  becoming  a  toil  to  me 
to  make  the  exertion  necessary  to  dress  to  go  out,  and  I  am 
now  leading  a  life  really  as  quiet  as  your  own  in  Lansingburg. 
— I  think  I  am  growing  phlegmatic  and  cold.  Man  stirs  me 
not,  nor  women  either.  My  circulation  is  languid.  My  brain 
is  dull.  I  neither  seek  to  win  pleasure  or  avoid  pain.  A  de 
gree  of  insensibility  has  been  long  stealing  over  me,  &  now 
seems  completely  established,  which,  to  my  understanding,  is 
more  akin  to  death  than  life.  Selfishly  speaking,  I  never  val 
ued  life  very  much — it  were  impossible  to  value  it  less  than  I 
do  now.  The  only  personal  desire  I  now  have  is  to  be  out  of 
debt.  That  desire  waxes  stronger  within  me  as  others  fade. 
In  consideration  of  the  little  egotism  which  my  previous  letters 
to  you  have  contained,  I  hope  that  mother,  brothers  &  sister 
will  pardon  this  babbling  about  myself. 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  255 

"Tom's  matter  has  not  been  forgotten.  You  say  there  is 
a  subject,  etc.,  etc.,  'on  which  I  intended  to  write  but  will 
defer  it.'  What  do  you  allude  to?  I  am  careful  to  procure 
all  the  critical  notices  of  Typee  which  appear  &  transmit  them 
to  you.  The  steamer  which  left  Boston  on  the  ist  inst.  will 
bring  me  tidings  from  the  U.  S.  as  to  the  success  of  Typee 
there.  I  am,  with  love  and  kisses  to  all, 

"Affectionately,  Your  brother, 

"GANSEVOORT  MELVILLE." 

With  this  letter,  Gansevoort  enclosed  fourteen  lines  from 
Act  III,  Scene  I  of  Measure  for  Measure,  beginning  "Ah,  but 
to  die."  On  May  12,  he  was  dead.  His  countrymen  celebrated 
his  decease.  The  Wisconsin,  a  newspaper  published  in  Mil 
waukee,  for  example,  published,  on  July  i,  a  florid  tribute  to 
his  memory,  declaring  him  "dear  to  the  people  of  the  West." 
"And  though  he  died  young  in  years,"  the  Wisconsin  goes  on 
to  say,  "for  genius,  thrilling  eloquence  and  enlarged  patriotism, 
he  was  known  to  the  people  from  Maine  to  Louisiana." 

But  already  had  Melville  achieved  a  wider,  if  less  beatified, 
reputation.  The  notice  that  Typee  attracted  extended  consid 
erably  beyond  either  Maine  or  Louisiana.  And  its  success 
was  none  the  less  brilliant  because  it  was  in  part  a  succes  de 
scandal.  Christendom  has  progressed  since  1846,  and  Typee 
has,  for  present-day  readers,  lost  its  charm  of  indelicacy.  Yet, 
despite  the  violation  of  the  proprieties  of  which  Melville  was 
accused,  Longfellow  records  in  his  journal  for  July  29,  1846: 
"In  the  even  ng  we  finished  the  first  volume  of  Typee,  a  curi 
ous  and  interesting  book  with  glowing  descriptions  of  life  in 
the  Marquesas"  There  is  no  indication  that  even  Longfellow 
found  it  discreet  to  omit  any  passages  as  he  read  Typee  to  his 
family  before  the  fire.  It  is  to  be  remembered,  however,  that 
in  1851  the  Scarlet  Letter  was  attacked  as  being  nothing  but 
a  deliberate  attempt  to  attract  readers  by  pandering  to  the 
basest  taste :  "Is  the  French  era  actually  begun  in  our  litera 
ture?"  a  shocked  reviewer  asked. 

The  appearance  of  Omoo  on  January  30,  1847,  augmented 
Melville's  notoriety,  and  contributed  to  his  fame.  Both  Typee 


256  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

and  Omoo  stirred  up  a  whole  regiment  of  critics,  at  home,  in 
England  and  in  France.  France  was  patronising,  of  course, 
after  the  manner  of  the  period;  but  France  flattered  Melville 
by  the  prolixity  of  her  patronage.  The  interest  of  France  in 
Melville  was  not  a  merely  literary  absorption,  however.  Mel 
ville  had  arrived  at  the  Marquesas  in  the  wake  of  Admiral 
Du  Petit-Thouars ;  and  at  Tahiti  Melville  had  been  a  prisoner 
on  board  the  Reine  Blanche.  In  England,  Melville  was  flat 
tered  not  only  by  vitriolic  evangelistical  damnation,  and  the 
uncritical  flatter  of  Gansevoort's  friends,  but  even  Black- 
wood's,  the  most  anti- American  of  British  journals,  said  of 
Omoo:  "Musing  the  other  day  over  our  matutinal  hyson,  the 
volume  itself  was  laid  before  us,  and  we  found  ourselves  in 
the  society  of  Marquesan  Melville,  the  Phoenix  of  modern  voy 
ages — springing,  it  would  seem,  from  the  mingled  ashes  of 
Captain  Cook  and  Robinson  Crusoe."  Writing  of  Typee,  the 
insular  John  Bull  said :  "Since  the  joyous  moment  when  we 
first  read  Robinson  Crusoe  and  believed  it,  we  have  not  met  so 
bewitching  a  book  as  this  narrative  of  Herman  Melville's/' 
The  London  Times  descended  to  amiability  and  said :  "That 
Mr.  Melville  will  favour  us  with  his  further  adventures  in  the 
South  Seas,  we  have  no  doubt  whatever.  We  shall  expect 
them  with  impatience,  and  receive  them  with  pleasure.  He  is 
a  companion  after  our  own  hearts.  His  voice  is  pleasant,  and 
we  are  sure  that  if  we  could  see  his  face  it  would  be  a  pleas 
ant  one."  While  such  pronouncements  were  no  earnest  of 
fame,  they  may  have  contributed  somewhat  to  augment  Mel 
ville's  royalties.  And  in  Mardi — written  before  Melville's 
secular  critics  began  to  assail  him — Melville  took  a  violent 
fling  at  his  reviewers.  "True  critics,"  he  said,  "are  more  rare 
than  true  poets.  A  great  critic  is  a  sultan  among  satraps; 
but  pretenders  are  thick  as  ants  striving  to  scale  a  palm  after 
its  aerial  sweetness.  Oh!  that  an  eagle  should  be  stabbed  by 
a  goose-quill!"  Withal,  when  Melville  wrote  Mardi  he  had 
spent  some  reflection  on  the  nature  of  Fame,  and  mocked  at 
those  who  console  themselves  for  the  neglect  of  their  contem 
poraries  by  bethinking  themselves  of  the  glorious  harvest  of 
bravos  their  ghosts  will  reap.  And  time,  he  saw,  was  an  un- 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  257 

dertaker,  not  a  resurrectionist :  "He  who  on  all  hands  passes 
for  a  cipher  to-day,  if  at  all  remembered,  will  be  sure  to  pass 
to-morrow  for  the  same.  For  there  is  more  likelihood  of  being 
overrated  while  living  than  of  being  underrated  when  dead." 

Noticed  by  reviewers,  and  encouraged  by  payments  from 
his  publishers,  Melville  began  to  look  more  hopefully  at  the 
world.  In  Claret  he  later  wrote :  "The  dagger-icicle  draws 
blood;  but  give  it  sun."  He  seemed  at  last  to  have  stepped 
decoratively  and  profitably  into  his  assigned  niche  in  the  cosmic 
order.  It  was  delightful  to  rehearse  outlived  pleasures  and 
hardships ;  and  it  was  a  lucrative  delight :  by  writing,  too,  some 
men  had  achieved  fame.  And  so,  undeterred  by  the  wail  of 
the  Preacher  of  Jerusalem,  Melville  settled  to  the  multiplica 
tion  of  books.  He  would  perpetuate  his  reveries — and  he 
doubted  not  that  sparkling  wines  would  crown  his  cup.  Then 
it  was  that  the  beckoning  image  of  an  ultimate  earthly  felicity 
swam  over  the  beaded  brim. 

Melville  had  dedicated  Typee  to  Chief  Justice  Lemuel  Shaw 
of  Massachusetts.  The  Shaws  and  the  Melvilles  were  friends 
of  years'  standing.  When  a  student  at  Amherst,  Lemuel  Shaw 
had  been  engaged  to  Melville's  aunt,  Nancy.  "To  his  death," 
says  Frederic  Hathway  Chase  in  his  Lemuel  Shaw,  "Shaw 
carefully  preserved  two  tender  notes  written  in  the  delicate 
hand  of  his  first  betrothed,  timidly  referring  to  their  immature 
plans  for  the  future  and  her  admiration  and  love  for  him. 
The  untimely  death  of  the  young  lady,  unhappily  cut  short 
their  youthful  dreams,  and  not  until  he  was  thirty-seven  years 
of  age  were  Shaw's  affections  again  engaged.  The  intimacy 
between  Shaw  and  the  Melville  family,  however,  continued 
after  the  young  lady's  death."  Yet  were  the  demands  of 
Shaw's  affections  not  satisfied  by  his  intimacy  with  the  Mel 
villes  or  by  the  two  love-letters  among  his  precious  belongings. 
He  married  twice;  the  first  time  in  1818  to  Elizabeth  Knapp; 
the  second  time  in  1827  to  Hope  Savage.  By  each  wife  he 
had  two  children.  By  Elizabeth,  John  Oakes,  who  died  in 
1902;  and  Elizabeth,  who  married  Melville.  By  Hope,  was 
born  to  him  Lemuel,  who  lived  till  1884,  and  Samuel  Savage, 
born  in  1833  in  the  Shaw  home  at  49  Mount  Vernon  Street, 


258  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Boston,  where  he  lived  till  his  death  in  1915.    Melville  heartily 
detested  his  brothers-in-law. 

On  March  19,  1846,  Melville  wrote  from  Lansingburg  to 
Chief  Justice  Shaw: 

"My  DEAR  SIR  : 

"Herewith  you  have  one  of  the  first  bound  copies  of  Typee 
I  have  been  able  to  procure — the  dedication  is  very  simple,  for 
the  world  would  hardly  have  sympathised  to  the  full  extent 
of  those  feelings  with  which  I  regard  my  father's  friend  and 
the  constant  friend  of  all  his  family. 

"I  hope  that  the  perusal  of  this  little  narrative  of  mine  will 
afford  you  some  entertainment,  even  if  it  should  not  possess 
much  other  merit.  Your  knowing  the  author  so  well,  will  im 
part  some  interest  to  it. — I  intended  to  have  sent  at  the  same 
time  with  this  copies  of  Typee  for  each  of  my  aunts,  but  have 
been  disappointed  in  not  receiving  as  many  as  I  expected. — I 
mention,  however,  in  the  accompanying  letter  to  my  Aunt  Pris- 
cilla  that  they  shall  soon  be  forthcoming. 

"Remember  me  most  warmly  to  Mrs.  Shaw  &  Miss  Eliza 
beth,  and  to  all  your  family,  &  tell  them  I  shall  not  soon  forget 
that  agreeable  visit  to  Boston. 

"With  sincere  respect,  Judge  Shaw,  I  remain  gratefully  & 
truly  yours, 

"HERMAN  MELVILLE. 

"CHIEF  JUSTICE  SHAW, 
"Boston." 

The  Aunt  Priscilla  mentioned  in  this  letter  was  a  sister  of 
Melville's  father— fifth  child  of  Major  Thomas  Melville.  She 
was  born  in  1784,  and  upon  her  death  in  1862,  she  showed 
that  her  appreciation  of  Melville's  earlier  solicitude  had  been 
substantial,  by  bequeathing  him  nine  hundred  dollars.  The 
Miss  Elizabeth  of  the  letter,  the  only  daughter  of  Chief  Justice 
Shaw,  and  Melville  were  married  on  August  4,  1847. 

On  the  evidence  of  surviving  records,  Melville's  father  had 
resigned  himself  to  the  institution  of  marriage  as  to  one  of 
the  established  conveniences  of  Christendom.  Allan  was  a 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  259 

practical  man,  and  he  soberly  saw  that  he  gained  more  than 
he  lost  by  generously  sharing  his  bed  and  the  fireside  zone 
with  a  competent  accessory  to  his  domestic  comforts.  If  he 
was  ever  a  romantic  lover,  it  was  in  the  folly  of  his  youth. 
Though  romantic  love  be  a  tingling  holiday  extravagance,  he 
mistrusted — and  Allan  never  doubted  his  wisdom — its  every 
day  useability  for  a  cautious  and  peace-loving  man.  And  since 
Dante  had  married  Gemma  Donati,  since  Petrarch  had  had 
children  by  an  unknown  concubine,  Maria  had  reason  to  con 
gratulate  herself  that  Allan  evinced  for  her  no  adoration  of 
the  kind  lavished  upon  the  sainted  Beatrice  or  upon  the  unat 
tainable  Laura. 

In  his  approach  to  marriage,  Melville  showed  none  of  the 
prosaic  circumspection  of  his  father.  From  his  idealisation 
of  the  proud  cold  purity  of  Maria,  Melville  built  up  a  haloed 
image  of  the  wonder  and  mystery  of  sanctified  womanhood: 
without  blemish,  unclouded,  snow-white,  terrible,  yet  serene. 
And  before  this  image  Melville  poured  out  the  fulness  of  his 
most  reverential  thoughts  and  beliefs.  The  very  profundity 
of  his  frustrated  love  for  Maria,  and  the  accusing  incompati 
bility  between  the  image  and  the  fact,  made  his  early  life  a 
futile  and  desperate  attempt  to  escape  from  himself.  The 
peace,  and  at  the  same  time  the  stupendous  discovery  that  he 
craved :  that  he  found  neither  at  home  nor  over  the  rim  of 
the  world.  When  with  Maria,  he  had  craved  to  put  oceans 
between  them ;  when  so  estranged,  he  was  parched  to  return. 

In  his  wanderings,  he  had  seen  sights,  and  lived  through 
experiences  to  disabuse  him  of  his  fantastic  idealisation  of 
woman.  In  fact,  however,  such  experiences  may  but  tend  to 
heighten  idealisation.  In  the  Middle  Age,  the  Blessed  Mother 
was  celebrated  in  a  duality  of  perplexing  incompatibility:  she 
was  at  once  the  Virgin  Mother  of  the  Son  of  God,  and  the 
patron  of  thieves,  harlots  and  cutthroats.  She  was  at  once  an 
object  of  worship  and  a  subject  of  farce.  She  was  woman. 
Protestantism,  restoring  woman  to  her  original  Hebraic  dig 
nity  of  a  discarded  rib,  evinced  in  marriage  an  essentially  bio 
logical  interest,  and  regulated  romantic  love  into  uxoriousness. 
Allan  was  a  good  Protestant.  But  neither  Mrs.  Chapone  nor 


260  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Fayaway  were  able  to  precipitate  Melville  into  that  form  of 
heresy.  Fayaway  was  Fayaway :  and  her  father  was  a  canni 
bal.  Civilisation  had  given  her  no  veils ;  Christianity  had  given 
her  no  compunctons.  She  was  neither  a  mystery  nor  a  sin. 
Untouched  did  she  leave  the  sacred  image  in  his  heart. 

^Jo  Elizabeth  Shaw,  Melville  transferred  his  idealisation  of 
his  mother.  In  Pierre  he  says:  "this  softened  spell  which 
wheeled  the  mother  and  son  in  one  orbit  of  joy  seemed  a 
glimpse  of  the  glorious  possibility,  of  the  divinest  of  those 
emotions  which  are  incident  to  the  sweetest  season  of  love." 
In  Pierre,  Melville  declared  that  the  ideal  possibilities  of  the 
love  between  mother  and  son,  seemed  "almost  to  realise  here  be 
low  the  sweet  dreams  of  those  religious  enthusiasts,  who  paint 
to  us  a  Paradise  to  come,  when  etherealised  from  all  dross  and 
stains,  the  holiest  passion  of  man  shall  unite  all  kindreds  and 
climes  in  one  circle  of  pure  and  unimpaired  delight."  And  in 
this  "courteous  lover-like  adoration"  of  son  for  mother,  Mel 
ville  saw  the  "highest  and  airiest  thing  in  the  whole  compass  of 
the  experience  of  our  mortal  life."  And  "this  heavenly  evanes 
cence,"  Melville  declares,  "this  nameless  and  infinitely  delicate 
aroma  of  inexpressible  tenderness  and  attentiveness,"  is,  "in 
every  refined  and  honourable  attachment,  contemporary  with 
courtship."  In  Pierre,  Melville  spends  a  chapter  of  dithyramb 
in  celebration  of  this  sentiment  which,  inspired  by  one's  mother, 
one  transfers  to  all  other  women  honourably  loved.  "Love 
may  end  in  age,  and  pain  and  need,  and  all  other  modes  of 
human  mournfulness;  but  love  begins  in  joy.  Love's  first  sigh 
is  never  breathed,  till  after  love  hath  laughed.  Love  has  not 
hands,  but  cymbals;  Love's  mouth  is  chambered  like  a  bugle, 
and  the  instinctive  breathings  of  his  life  breathe  jubilee  notes 
of  joy."  And  during  his  courtship  of  Elizabeth  Shaw,  it  seems 
thatjn  Melville  were  "the  audacious  immortalities  of  divinest 
love?] 

N'one  of  Melville's  letters  of  courtship  survive.  There  are 
more  direct  evidences  of  the  fruits  of  his  love,  than  of  its 
early  bloom.  There  are,  however,  two  letters  of  his  wife's, 
written  during  the  month  of  the  marriage.  The  first  was  writ 
ten  during  the  wedding  trip. 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  261 

"CENTER  HARBOR,  Aug.  6th,  1847. 
v'Mv  DEAR  MOTHER: 

"You  know  I  promised  to  write  you  whenever  we  came  to 
a  stopping  place,  and  remained  long  enough.  We  are  now  at 
Center  Harbor,  a  most  lonely  and  romantic  spot  at  the  ex 
tremity  of  Winnipiscogee  Lake,  having  arrived  last  evening 
from  Concord — and  we  intend  to  remain  until  to-morrow. 
One  object  in  stopping  so  long  and  indeed  principal  one  was 
to  visit  'Red  Hill' — a  mountain  (commanding  a  most  beauti 
ful  view  of  the  lake)  about  four  miles  distant.  But  to-day 
it  is  so  cloudy  and  dull,  I  am  afraid  we  shall  not  be  able  to 
accomplish  it — so  you  see  I  have  a  little  spare  time,  and  im 
prove  it  by  writing  to  relieve  any  anxiety  you  may  feel. 
Though  this  is  but  the  third  day  since  our  departure,  it  seems 
as  if  a  long  time  had  passed,  we  have  seen  so  many  places  of 
novelty  and  interest.  The  stage  ride  yesterday  from  Frank 
lin  here,  though  rather  fatiguing,  was  one  of  great  attraction 
from  the  beautiful  scenery.  To-morrow  we  again  intend  to 
take  the  stage  to  Conway,  and  from  there  to  the  White  Moun 
tains.  I  will  write  again  from  there,  and  tell  you  more  of 
what  I  have  seen,  but  now  I  send  this  missive  more  to  let  you 
know  of  our  safety  and  well-being  than  anything  else. 

"I  hope  by  this  time  you  have  quite  recovered  from  your 
indisposition,  and  that  I  shall  soon  hear  from  you  to  be  assured 
of  it — I  hardly  dare  to  trust  myself  to  speak  of  what  I  felt 
in  leaving  home,  but  under  the  influence  of  such  commingling 
thoughts,  it  entirely  escaped  me  to  tell  you  of  any  place  to 
which  you  might  address  a  letter  to  me  so  that  I  should  be  sure 
to  get  it.  Now  I  am  very  anxious  and  impatient  to  hear  from 
you,  and  I  hope  you  will  lose  no  time  in  writing  if  it  be  only  a 
very  few  lines.  Herman  desires  to  add  a  postscript  to  my  let 
ter,  and  he  will  tell  you  when  and  where  to  write  so  that  I 
may  get  it. 

Remember  me  with  affection  to  father  and  ask  him  to  let 
me  have  a  letter  from  him  soon, — to  all  members  of  the  fam 
ily  and  to  Mrs.  Melville  and  the  girls — my  mother  and  sisters 
— how  strangely  it  sounds.  Accept  a  great  deal  of  love  for 


262  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

yourself,  my  dear  mother,  and  believe  me  as  ever,  your  affec 
tionate  daughter,  Elizabeth — even  though  I  add  to  it — Melville 
—for  the  first  time. 

"Friday  morning. 
"Mv  DEAR  SIR: 

"At  my  desire  Lizzie  has  left  a  small  space  for  a  word  or 
two. — We  arrived  here  last  evening  after  a  pleasant  ride  from 
Franklin,  the  present  terminus  of  the  Northern  Rail  Road. 
The  scenery  was  in  many  places  very  fine,  &  we  caught  some 
glimpses  of  the  mountain  region  to  which  we  are  going.  Cen 
ter  Harbor  where  we  now  are  is  a  very  attractive  place  for 
a  tourist,  having  the  lake  for  boating  and  trouting,  and  plenty 
of  rides  in  the  vicinity,  besides  Red-Hill,  the  view  from  which 
is  said  to  be  equal  to  anything  of  the  kind  in  New  England.' 
A  rainy  day,  however,  has  thus  far  prevented  us  from  taking 
our  excursion,  to  enjoy  the  country. — To-morrow,  I  think 
we  shall  leave  for  Conway  and  thence  to  Mt.  Washington  & 
so  to  Canada.  I  trust  in  the  course  of  some  two  weeks  to 
bring  'Lizzie,  to  Lansingburgh,  quite  refreshed  and  invigourated 
from  her  rambles. — Remember  me  to  Mrs.  Shaw  &  the  family, 
and  tell  my  mother  that  I  will  write  to  her  in  a  day  or  two. 

"Sincerely  yours, 

"HERMAN  MELVILLE. 

"Letters  directed  within  four  or  five  days  from  now,  will 
probably  reach  us  at  Montreal." 

The  second  letter  explains  itself: 

"LANSINGBURGH,  Aug.  28th,  1847. 
"Mv  DEAR  MOTHER: 

"We  arrived  here  safe  and  well  yesterday  morning,  and  I 
intended  to  have  written  a  few  lines  to  you  then,  but  I  was 
so  tired,  and  had  so  much  to  do  to  unpack  and  put  away  my 
things,  I  deferred  it  until  to-day. 

"We  left  Montreal  on  Tuesday  evening  and  the  next  day  in 
the  afternoon  hailed  Whitehall,  at  the  foot  of  Lake  Cham- 
plain,  after  a  very  pleasant  sail  on  that  beautiful  piece  of 
water.  The  next  question  was  whether  we  should  proceed  to 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  263 

Lansingburgh  by  stage  or  take  the  canal  boat.  We  thought 
stage  riding  would  be  rather  tame  after  the  beautiful  scenery 
of  Vermont,  and  as  I  had  never  been  in  a  canal  boat  in  my 
life,  Herman  thought  we  had  better  try  it  for  the  novelty. 
This  would  expedite  our  journeying,  too,  and  having  once  set 
our  faces  homeward,  we  were  not  disposed  to  delay.  Being 
fully  forewarned  of  the  inconvenience  we  might  expect  in 
passing  a  night  on  board  a  canal  boat — a  crowded  canal  boat, 
too,  and  fully  determined  to  meet  them  bravely,  we  stepped  on 
board — not  without  some  misgivings,  however,  as  we  saw  the 
crowds  of  men,  women  and  children  come  pouring  in,  with 
trunks  and  handbags  to  match.  Where  so  many  people  were 
to  store  themselves  at  night  was  a  mystery  to  be  yet  unravelled, 
and  what  they  all  did  do  with  themselves  is  something  I  have 
not  yet  found  out.  Well,  night  drew  on — and  after  sitting 
on  deck  on  trunks  or  anything  we  could  find  (and  having  to 
bob  our  heads  down  every  few  minutes  when  the  helmsman 
sang  out  'Bridge!'  or  Tow  Bridge!')  it  became  so  damp  and 
chilly  that  I  was  finally  driven  below. 

"Here  was  a  scene  entirely  passing  description.  The  La 
dies'  'Saloon!'  they  politely  termed  it  so,  so  we  were  informed 
by  a  red  and  gilt  sign  over  it.  A  space  about  as  large  as  my 
room  at  home,  was  separated  from  the  gentlemen's  'Saloon* 
by  a  curtain  only.  About  20  or  25  women  were  huddled  into 
this.  Each  one  having  two  children  apiece  of  all  ages,  sexes, 
and  sizes,  said  children,  as  is  usual  on  such  occasions,  lifting 
up  their  respective  voices,  very  loud  indeed,  in  one  united 
chorus  of  lamentations. 

"A  narrow  row  of  shelves  was  hooked  up  high  on  each  side 
and  on  these  some  &  more  fortunate  mothers  had  closely 
packed  their  sleeping  babies  while  they  sat  by  to  prevent  their 
rolling  out.  I  looked  round  in  vain  for  a  place  to  stretch  my 
limbs,  but  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of — but  after  a  while  by  a 
fortunate  chance  I  got  a  leaning  privilege,  and  fixing  my 
carpet-bag  for  a  pillow,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  pass  the  night 
in  this  manner.  One  by  one  the  wailing  children  dropped  off 
to  sleep  and  I  had  actually  lost  myself  in  a  sort  of  doze,  when 
a  new  feature  in  the  case  became  apparent.  Stepping  carefully 


264  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

over  the  outstretched  forms  on  the  floor  came  two  men,  each 
bearing  a  pile  of  boards  or  little  shelves  like  those  already  sus 
pended.  These  they  hooked  up  against  the  sides  in  the  smallest 
conceivable  spaces,  using  every  available  inch  of  room — and 
were  intended  to  sleep  ( !)  upon.  I  immediately  pounced  upon 
one  of  them  which  I  thought  might  be  accessible,  and  jvas  just 
consulting  with  myself  as  to  the  best  means  of  getting  onfo  it, 
when  I  was  politely  requested  by  one  of  the  sufferers  to  take 
the  shelf  above  from  which  she  wished  to  remove  her  children 
to  the  one  I  thought  to  occupy — of  course  I  complied,  and  after 
failing  in  several  awkward  attempts,  I  managed  to  climb  and 
crawl  into  this  narrow  aperture  like  a  bug  forcing  its  way 
through  the  boards  of  a  fence.  Sweltering  and  smothering 
I  watched  the  weary  night  hours  pass  away,  for  to  sleep  in  such 
an  atmosphere  was  impossible.  I  rose  at  3  o'clock,  thinking 
it  was  five,  spent  a  couple  of  hours  curled  up  on  the  floor, 
and  was  right  glad  when  Herman  came  for  me,  with  the  joyful 
intelligence  that  we  were  actually  approaching  Whitehall — the 
place  of  our  destination.  He  also  passed  a  weary  night,  though 
his  sufferings  were  of  the  opposite  order — for  while  I  was  suf 
focating  with  the  heat  and  bad  atmosphere,  he  was  on  deck, 
chilled  and  half-frozen  with  the  fog  and  penetrating  damp 
ness,  for  the  gentlemen's  apartment  was  even  more  crowded 
than  the  ladies' — so  much  so  that  they  did  not  attempt  to  hang 
any  shelves  for  them  to  lie  upon.  All  they  could  do  was  to  sit 
bolt  upright  firmly  wedged  in  and  if  one  of  them  presumed  to 
lean  at  all  or  even  to  nod  out  of  the  perpendicular  it  was 
thought  a  great  infringement  of  rights,  and  he  was  imme 
diately  called  to  order.  So  Herman  preferred  to  remain  on 
deck  all  night  to  being  in  this  crowd.  We  left  the  boat  and 
took  the  cars  about  an  hour's  ride  from  Lansingburgh,  and 
surprised  the  family  at  6  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  they 
were  up.  We  were  very  warmly  welcomed  and  cared  for  and 
soon  forgot  our  tribulations  of  the  canal  boat.  I  was  much 
disappointed  to  miss  the  boys — they  had  only  left  the  day 
before — it  was  too  bad — I  am  looking  forward  with  such  im 
patience  to  see  you  and  father,  and  sincerely  hope  nothing 
jyill  happen  to  prevent  your  coming. 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  265 

"I  suppose  we  shall  not  be  long  here.  Allan  is  looking  out 
for  a  house  in  N.  Y.  and  will  be  married  next  month. 

"You  know  a  proposition  was  made  before  I  came  here  that 
I  should  furnish  my  own  room,  which  for  good  reasons  were 
then  set  aside — but  if  it  is  not  too  late  now,  I  should  like 
very  much  to  do  it  if  we  go  to  N.  Y. — but  we  can  talk  about 
that  when  I  see  you.  I  must  bring  my  scribbling  to  a  close, 
after  I  have  begged  you  or  somebody  to  write  me.  I  have  not 
received  a  single  line  since  I  left  home.  How  did  the  dinner 
party  go  off?  I  want  to  hear  about  everything  and  every 
body  at  home.  Please  give  my  warmest  love  to  all  and  believe 
me  your  affectionate  daughter, 

"ELIZABETH  S.  M. 

"Herman  desires  his  kindest  remembrances  to  all." 

Soon  after  the  marriage,  Melville  and  his  wife  moved  from 
Lansingburg  to  New  York,  where  they  lived  with  Melville's 
brother,  Allan,  and  his  household  of  sisters.  The  letters  of 
Mrs.  Melville's  are  the  only  surviving  records  of  the  intimate 
details  of  this  domestic  arrangement.  They  are  interesting, 
too,  as  revelation  of  the  character  of  Mrs.  Melville.  The  three 
following  are  typical : 

"NEW  YORK,  Dec.  23rd,  1847. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Mother,  for  your  nice  long  letter.  I 
W7as  beginning  to  be  afraid  you  had  forgotten  your  part  of  the 
contract  for  that  week,  but  Saturday  brought  me  evidence  to 
the  contrary  and  made  us  even.  And  I  should  have  written 
you  earlier,  but  the  days  are  so  short,  and  I  have  so  much  to 
do,  that  they  fly  by  without  giving  me  half  the  time  I  want. 
Perhaps  you  will  wonder  what  on  earth  I  have  to  occupy  me. 
Well  in  fact  I  hardly  know  exactly  myself,  but  true  it  is  little 
things  constantly  present  themselves  and  dinner  time  comes 
before  I  am  aware.  We  breakfast  at  8  o'clock,  then  Herman 
goes  to  walk  and  I  fly  up  to  put  his  room  to  rights,  so  that 
he  can  sit  down  to  his  desk  immediately  on  his  return.  Then 
I  bid  him  good-bye,  with  many  charges  to  be  an  industrious 
boy  and  not  upset  the  inkstand  and  then  flourish  the  duster, 


266  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

make  the  bed,  etc.,  in  my  own  room.  Then  I  go  down 
stairs  and  read  the  papers  a  little  while,  and  after  that  I  am 
ready  to  sit  down  to  my  work — whatever  it  may  be — darning 
stockings — making  or  mending  for  myself  or  Herman — at  all 
events,  I  haven't  seen  a  day  yet,  without  some  sewing  or  other 
to  do.  If  I  have  letters  to  write,  as  is  the  case  to-day,  I  usu 
ally  do  that  first — but  whatever  I  am  about  I  do  not  much 
more  than  get  thoroughly  engaged  in  it,  than  ding-dong  goes 
the  bell  for  luncheon.  This  is  half-past  12  o'clock — by  this 
time  we  must  expect  callers,  and  so  must  be  dressed  immedi 
ately  after  lunch.  Then  Herman  insists  upon  taking  a  walk 
of  an  hour's  length  at  least.  So  unless  I  can  have  rain  or 
snow  for  an  excuse,  I  usually  sally  out  and  make  a  pedestrian 
tour  a  mile  or  two  down  Broadway.  By  the  time  I  come 
home  it  is  two  o'clock  and  after,  and  then  I  must  make  myself 
look  as  bewitchingly  as  possible  to  meet  Herman  at  dinner. 
This  being  accomplished,  I  have  only  about  an  hour  of  avail 
able  time  left.  At  four  we  dine,  and  after  dinner  is  over, 
Herman  and  I  come  up  to  our  room  and  enjoy  a  cosy  chat 
for  an  hour  or  so — or  he  reads  me  some  of  the  chapters  he 
has  been  writing  in  the  day.  Then  he  goes  down  town  for 
a  walk,  looks  at  the  papers  in  the  reading  room,  etc.,  and 
returns  about  half -past  seven  or  eight.  Then  my  work  or 
my  book  is  laid  aside,  and  as  he  does  not  use  his  eyes  but  very 
little  by  candle  light,  I  either  read  to  him,  or  take  a  hand  at 
whist  for  his  amusement,  or  he  listens  to  our  reading  or  con 
versation,  as  best  pleases  him.  For  we  all  collect  in  the  par 
lour  in  the  evening,  and  generally  one  of  us  reads  aloud  for  the 
benefit  of  the  whole.  Then  we  retire  very  early — at  10  o'clock 
we  all  disperse.  Indeed  we  think  that  quite  a  late  hour  to  be 
up.  This  is  the  general  course  of  daily  events — so  you  see 
how  my  time  is  occupied ;  but  sometime — dear  me !  we  have  to 
go  and  make  calls!  and  then  good-bye  to  everything  else  for 
that  day !  for  upon  my  word,  it  takes  the  whole  day,  from  i 
o'clock  till  four!  and  then  perhaps  we  don't  accomplish  more 
than  two  or  three,  if  unluckily  they  chance  to  be  in — for  every 
body  lives  so  far  from  everybody  else,  and  all  Herman's  and 
Allan's  friends  are  so  polite,  to  say  nothing  of  Mrs.  M.'s  old 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  267 

acquaintances,  that  I  am  fairly  sick  and  tired  of  returning  calls. 
And  no  sooner  do  we  do  up  a  few,  than  they  all  come  again, 
and  so  it  has  to  be  gone  over  again. 

"You  know  ceremonious  calls  were  always  my  abomination, 
and  where  they  are  all  utter  strangers  and  we  have  to  send  in 
our  cards  to  show  who  we  are,  it  is  so  much  the  worse.  Ex 
cepting  calls,  I  have  scarcely  visited  at  all.  Herman  is  not 
fond  of  parties,  and  I  don't  care  anything  about  them  here. 
To-morrow  night,  for  a  great  treat,  we  are  going  to  the  opera 
— Herman  &  Fanny  and  I — and  this  is  the  f.rst  place  of  public 
amusement  I  have  attended  since  I  have  been  here — but  some 
how  or  other  I  don't  care  much  about  them  now. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that  father  and  all  are  so  well — except 
Sam — how  is  his  cough  now?  don't  forget  to  tell  us  when  you 
write. 

"If  Susan  Haywood  and  Fanny  Clarke  are  at  our  house 
please  give  my  love  to  them  and  ask  Susan  to  answer  my  letter. 
How  is  Mrs.  Marcus  Morton  and  Mrs.  Hawes?  I  hope  you 
will  be  able  to  write  me  this  week  though  I  know  your  time 
is  very  much  occupied — but  then  you  know  any  letter — even  the 
shortest  and  most  hurried  is  acceptable  and  better  than  none — 
though  I  must  confess  my  prejudice  sins  in  favour  of  long 
ones — but  I  am  glad  to  hear  anything  from  home.  You  ad 
dressed  my  last  letter  just  right  and  it  came  very  straight — > 
but  Allan's  name  is  spelt  with  an  V  instead  of  an  V — as  Allan 
— not  Allen — different  names,  you  see — I  am  hoping  that  some 
time  or  other  father  will  find  time  to  write  to  me — though  I 
know  he  is  so  much  occupied  with  other  matters. 

"Thank  you  for  your  kindness  about  the  picture  box — as  I 
do  not  need  any  article  at  present,  I  will  keep  the  dollar  till 
I  do — it  will  be  the  same  thing,  you  know,  and  I  have  already 
got  such  a  New  Year's  present  in  the  big  box  upstairs — by 
the  way,  in  about  a  week  more,  it  will  be  time  to  open  it.  Oh, 
what  do  you  think  about  my  calling  on  Mrs.  Joe  Henshaw 
and  Josephine — they  are  living  here  and  came  here  after  I  did, 
so  perhaps  I  ought  to  call  first  if  it  is  best  for  me  to  visit  them 
— being  connected  with  the  Haywoods  perhaps  it  would  be 
better  to  renew  the  acquaintance.  What  do  you  think  about 


268  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

it?  Please  tell  me  when  you  write,  and  get  their  address  from 
Aunt  Haywood,  if  you  think  I  had  better  call.  I  am  afraid 
you  are  tired  of  this  long  letter;  but  I  have  done  now.  Good 
bye,  and  love  to  all. 

"Affectionately  yours, 

"ELIZABETH  S.  MELVILLE. 

"P.  S.  I  have  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Warpwell  a  few  days 
since  —  I  didn't  know  she  had  lost  one  of  her  twins  before. 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  My  love  to  Mrs.  Sullivan.  I  hope 
she  is  quite  w7ell  again.  Tell  Lem  we  expect  him  next  month 
in  his  mention  to  make  us  a  visit." 


YORK,  Feb.  4th,  1848. 

"103  Fourth  Avenue. 
"Mv  DEAR  MOTHER: 

"Every  day  for  the  last  week  I  have  been  trying  to  write 
to  you,  but  have  been  prevented.  I  received  your  letter  by 
Lemuel  writh  much  pleasure  and  the  next  time  you  write  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  more  about  Carrie  —  how  she  and  the  small 
baby  are  getting  along  —  and  whether  she  took  ether  when  she 
was  sick  and  if  so,  with  what  effect.  What  they  have  decided 
to  name  the  baby  and  all  about  it.  Your  presents  were  very 
acceptable  —  Herman  was  much  gratified  with  your  remem 
brance  to  him  —  and  intends  to  make  his  acknowledgment  for 
himself.  You  forgot  Kate  in  the  multitude  of  Melvilles  —  so  I 
just  gave  her  my  share  of  the  bill  you  enclosed  without  saying 
anything  about  it  —  knowing  you  would  not  intentionally  leave 
her  out  —  or  rather  I  gave  the  bill  to  Helen  for  herself,  Fanny 
and  Kate,  as  she  could  get  whai  they  most  wanted  better  than 
I  —  so  it's  all  right  now,  and  I  will  take  the  will  for  the  deed 
and  thank  you  all  the  same. 

"The  key  of  the  basket  that  you  wanted  me  to  send  —  you 
know  —  I  have  no  bills  there  whatever  —  you  have  them  all.  I 
only  have  an  account  of  the  expenditure  and  a  memorandum 
of  the  bills  that  were  paid  —  not  the  item  of  the  bills.  If  you 
have  an  opportunity  where  it  will  come  safe  I  should  like  to 
have  you  send  me  that  basket  very  much. 

"You  speak  of  a  Mr.  Crocker  whom  you  wish  me  to  receive. 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  269 

If  he  will  call  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  him.  You  know 
we  are  recently  renumbered  and  our  address  now  is  'No.  103 
Fourth  Avenue',  'between  nth  &  i2th  Streets' — it  is  safer  to 
add  for  a  time. 

"Lem  seems  to  be  enjoying  himself  highly  with  the  amuse 
ments  out  of  doors,  and  the  society  within.  Last  night  he 
went  to  a  masked  ball,  under  the  auspices  of  Mrs.  Elwell, 
through  Aunt  Marat's  kindness,  and  a  very  fine  appearance 
he  presented,  I  can  assure  you,  in  an  old  French  court  dress — 
with  a  long  curled  horse-hair  wig,  chapeau  bras — knee  breeches, 
long  stockings,  buckles,  snuff  box  and  all — it  was  a  very  be 
coming  dress  to  him,  and  exactly  suited  to  his  carriage  and 
manners — I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him.  We  went  to  a 
party  ourselves  last  evening,  but  we  had  a  deal  of  fun  helping 
him  to  dress — he  went  masked  of  course,  but  being  introduced 
by  Mrs.  Elwell  was  very  kindly  received — taking  Mrs.  Dick 
inson  (the  hostess)  down  to  supper,  and  doing  the  polite  thing 
to  the  nine  Misses  Dickinson.  He  enjoyed  it  much,  as  you 
may  suppose,  and  did  not  get  home  till  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  even  then  the  ball  had  not  broken  up.  At  this 
present  moment — n  o'clock — I  believe  he  is  dozing  on  the 
parlour  sofa — to  gain  strength  to  go  to  the  opera  this  evening. 

"We  have  been  very  dissipated  this  week  for  us,  for  usually 
we  are  very  quiet.  Wednesday  evening  we  passed  at  Mrs. 
Thurston's  and  were  out  quite  late — last  night  at  a  party — a 
very  pleasant  one  too,  where  by  the  way — I  passed  off  for  Miss 
Melville  and  as  such  was  quite  a  belle ! !  And  to-night  in  hon 
our  of  our  guest,  we  go  to  the  Opera.  We  have  resolved  to 
stop  after  this  though  and  not  go  out  at  all  for  while  Herman 
is  writing  the  effect  of  keeping  late  hours  is  very  injurious 
to  him — if  he  does  not  get  a  full  night's  rest  or  indulges  in  a 
late  supper,  he  does  not  feel  right  for  writing  the  next  day. 
And  the  days  are  too  precious  to  be  thrown  away.  And 
to  tell  the  truth  I  don't  think  he  cares  very  much  about  parties 
either,  and  when  he  goes  it  is  more  on  my  account  than  his 
own.  And  it's  no  sacrifice  to  me,  for  I  am  quite  as  contented, 
and  more — to  stay  at  home  so  long  as  he  will  stay  with  me. 
He  has  had  communications  from  London  publishers  with  very 


270  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

liberal  offers  for  the  book  in  hand — and  one  from  Berlin  to 
translate  from  the  first  sheets  into  German — but  as  yet  he  has 
closed  with  none  of  them,  and  will  not  in  a  hurry. 

"I  believe  I  forgot  in  my  last  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of 
a  paper  from  father — I  was  very  glad  of  it — please  present 
my  thanks — I  have  intended  to  write  to  father  for  a  good 
while — but  I  like  to  have  answers  to  my  letters — so  if  father 
has  not  time  to  write  in  reply,  you  must  write  for  him.  Give 
my  love  to  him  and  to  all  the  family — and  when  you  see  Susan 
Morton  ask  her  to  write  to  me. 

"Tell  Aunt  Lucretia  I  was  delighted  to  get  her  note,  and 
I  will  write  to  her. 

"Now  I  have  written  you  a  famous  long  letter  and  I  hope 
you  will  write  me  as  long  a  one  very  soon,  for  I  have  not  heard 
from  home  for  more  than  a  week  now — not  since  Lem  came. 

"Give  my  love  to  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  believe  me  as  ever  truly 
yours, 

"E.  S.  MELVILLE." 

"NEW  YORK,  May  5th,  1848. 
"My  DEAR  MOTHER  : 

"I  am  very  much  occupied  to-day  but  I  snatch  a  few  mo 
ments  to  reply  to  your  letter  which  though  rather  tardy  in 
forthcoming  was  very  acceptable.  But  you  did  not  tell  me 
what  I  most  wanted  to  know — about  Sam.  And  your  indefi 
nite  allusion  to  it,  when  we  were  all  waiting  to  hear,  was  rather 
tantalising.  Does  'this  season'  means  now  in  his  present  vaca 
tion,  or  sometime  in  the  course  of  the  year?  I  suppose  his 
vacation  has  already  commenced  if  he  is  out  at  Milton,  then 
why  not  let  him  come  immediately  and  make  his  visit,  because 
if  he  waits  till  warm  weather  it  will  not  be  nearly  so  pleasant 
or  so  beneficial  for  him.  Maria  Percival  writes  me  that  she  is 
coming  on  soon  and  he  might  come  with  her.  Please  write  me 
something  definite  about  it,  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  do  let 
him  come.  We  want  him  to  very  much,  and  the  sooner  the 
better. 

"You  ask  about  our  coming  to  Boston  but  I  guess  the  house 
will  be  ready  to  clean  again  by  that  time — for  it  will  not  be 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  271 

before  July,  perhaps  August.  Herman  of  course  will  stick  to 
his  work  till  'the  book'  is  published  and  his  services  are  re 
quired  till  the  last  moment — correcting  proof,  etc.  The  book 
is  done  now,  in  fact  (you  need  not  mention  it)  and  the  copy 
for  the  press  is  in  progress,  but  when  it  is  published  on  both 
sides  of  the  water  a  great  deal  of  delay  is  unavoidable  and 
though  Herman  will  have  some  spare  time  after  sending  the 
proof  sheets  to  London  which  will  be  next  month  sometime 
probably  he  will  not  want  to  leave  New  York  till  the  book  is 
actually  on  the  book-sellers'  shelves.  And  then  I  don't  care 
about  leaving  home  till  my  cold  is  over  because  I  could  not 
enjoy  my  visit  so  much.  So  though  I  am  very  impatient  for 
the  time  to  come  I  must  e'en  wait  as  best  I  may  and  enjoy  the 
anticipation. 

"We  are  looking  out  for  Tom  to  return  every  day,  his  ship 
has  been  reported  in  the  papers  several  times  lately  as  home 
ward  bound  and  Herman  wrote  to  the  owner  at  Westport 
and  received  answer  that  he  looked  for  the  ship  the  first  of 
May.  That  has  already  past  and  we  are  daily  expecting  a 
letter  to  announce  her  actual  arrival.  Then  Herman  will  have 
to  go  over  to  Westport  for  Tom  and  see  that  he  is  regularly 
discharged  and  paid,  and  bring  him  home.  As  yet  he,  Tom, 
is  in  entire  ignorance  of  the  changes  that  have  taken  place  in 
his  family  and  of  their  removal  to  New  York.  So  he  will  be 
much  surprised  I  think.  As  you  may  suppose,  Mother  is 
watching  and  counting  the  days  with  great  anxiety  for  he  is  the 
baby  of  the  family  and  his  mother's  pet. 

"Augusta  is  going  to  Albany  in  a  few  days  to  visit  the 
Van  Renssalaers.  They  have  been  at  her  all  winter  to  go  up 
the  river  but  she  would  not,  and  now  Mr.  Van  Renssalaer  is 
in  town  and  will  not  go  back  without  her.  And  in  a  few 
weeks  Helen  is  going  to  Lansingburgh  to  visit  Mrs.  Jones. 

"I  should  write  you  a  longer  letter  but  I  am  very  busy  to-day 
copying  and  cannot  spare  the  time  so  you  must  excuse  it  and 
all  mistakes.  I  tore  my  sheet  in  two  by  mistake  thinking  it 
was  my  copying  (for  we  only  write  on  one  side  of  the  page) 
and  if  there  is  no  punctuation  marks  you  must  make  them 
yourself  for  when  I  copy  I  do  not  punctuate  at  all  but  leave 


272  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

it  for  a  final  revision  for  Herman.     I  have  got  so  used  to  write 
without  (  . )  I  cannot  always  think  of  it. 

"Please  write  me  very  soon  this  week — if  only  a  few  lines 
and  tell  me  about  Sam's  coming. 

"My  love  to  all,  to  father  when  you  write  and  to  Sue  Mor 
ton  if  she  is  at  our  house,  Mrs.  Hawes  etc.  and  believe  me  as 
ever  your  affectionate 

"E.  S.  MELVILLE. 

"Miss  Savage  &  Miss  Lincoln  called  to  see  me  a  day  or  two 
ago. 

"Please  spell  Allan's  name  with  an  A,  not  E.  Allan,  not 
Allen!' 

During  this  period,  the  household  at  103  Fourth  Avenue 
was  busy  getting  Redburn  and  Mardi  ready  for  the  press. 
Melville's  sister  Augusta  seems  to  have  been  exhaustless  in 
copying  manuscript.  Melville's  mother-in-law  reports  "Miss 
Augusta  is  all  energy,  united  with  much  kindness/'  Augusta 
also  evinced  a  strong  religious  bent,  and  during  song  services 
—which  she  loved  to  attend — she  used  to  grip  her  hymnal 
athletically,  and  beat  time  with  an  aggressive  rhythm.  Her 
Hymn  Book  survives,  pasted  up  with  dozens  of  clippings  of 
hymns  and  prayers,  a  "selection"  entitled  The  Sinner's  Friend, 
and  the  vivacious  couplet : 

"Jesus,  mine's  a  pressing  case. 
Oh,  more  grace,  more  grace,  MORE  GRACE!" 

But  song-services,  and  copying  manuscript,  were  not  enough 
to  fill  Augusta's  busy  days.  In  January,  1848,  she  was  com 
missioned  to  find  a  name  satisfactory  for  Melville's  first  child. 
Mrs.  Herman  Melville  was  in  Boston  to  be  with  her  mother 
and  family  at  the  time  of  the  childbirth.  On  January  27,  1849, 
Augusta  wrote  from  New  York  to  "My  dear  Lizzie,  My  sweet 
Sister,"  reporting  that  she  had  been  "searching  the  Genealogi 
cal  Tree"  with  designs  upon  an  ancestor  with  a  choice  name : 
and  she  spends  two  very  diverting  and  animated  pages  recount 
ing  her  adventures  among  the  branches.  Her  search  was 


ELIZABETH    SHAW    MKI.VII.I.E 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  273 

rewarded  to  her  satisfaction:  "Malcolm  Melville!  how  easily 
it  runs  from  my  pen;  how  sweetly  it  sounds  to  my  ear;  how 
musically  it  falls  upon  my  heart.  Malcolm  Melville!  Me- 
thinks  I  see  him  in  his  plaided  kilts,  with  his  soft  blue  eyes,  & 
his  long  flaxen  curls.  How  I  long  to  press  him  to  my  heart. 
There!  I  can  write  no  more.  The  last  proof  sheets  are 
through.  Mardi's  a  book."  Augusta  concludes  with  a  quota 
tion  from  Mardi:  "  'Oh  my  own  Kagtanza,  child  of  my  pray 
ers.  Oro's  blessing  on  thee !' ' 

In  her  search  of  the  Genealogical  Tree,  Augusta  had  con 
temptuously  brushed  by  all  female  branches:  she  had  deter 
mined  that  Melville's  first  child  should  be  a  son — and  a  son 
with  blue  eyes  and  blond  hair — and  in  her  choice  of  a  name 
for  the  unborn  infant,  she  contemptuously  ignored  the  possi 
bility  of  the  child  turning  out  to  be  a  girl.  On  February  16, 
1849,  was  born  in  Boston,  to  Melville  and  his  wife,  their 
first  child.  There  was  potency  in  Augusta's  prayers.  It  was 
a  boy. 

On  April  14,  1849,  Mardi  appeared,  published,  as  was  Omoo, 
by  Harper  and  Brothers  in  America,  by  Richard  Bentley  in 
London.  Redburn  appeared  on  August  18  of  the  same  year.  By 
February  22,  1850  (the  date  of  Melville's  fifth  royalty  account 
from  Harper  and  Brothers),  2,154  copies  of  Mardi,  and  4,011 
copies  of  Redburn  had  been  sold.  On  February  i,  1848,  Mel 
ville  had  overdrawn  his  account  with  Harper's  to  the  extent 
of  $256.03.  On  December  5,  1848,  Harper's  advanced  Mel 
ville  $500;  on  April  28,  1848,  $300;  on  July  2,  1849,  $3°°; 
on  September  14,  1849,  $5°°-  Though  Mardi  and  Redburn 
had  had  a  fairly  generous  sale,  the  deduction  of  his  royalties 
on  February  22,  1850,  left  him  in  debt  to  Harper's  $733.69. 
The  outlook  was  not  bright  for  the  responsibilities  of  father 
hood. 

On  April  23,  Melville  sent  to  his  father-in-law  a  note  "con- 
veying  the  intelligence  of  Lizzie's  improving  strength,  and 
Malcolm's  precocious  growth.  Both  ase  well."  Melville  went 
on  to  say  that  Samuel,  the  brother-in-law  for  whom  he  felt 
not  the  most  enthusiastic  affection,  was  expected  by  all  "to 
honour  us  with  his  presence  during  the  approaching  vacation : 


274  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

and  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  not  find  it  difficult  to  spend  his 
time  pleasantly  with  so  many  companions."  Does  Melville 
here  imply  that  for  himself,  as  a  sensible  man,  he  would  prefer 
more  solitude?  In  conclusion,  Melville  says:  "I  see  that 
Mardi  has  been  cut  into  by  the  London  Atheneum,  and  also 
burnt  by  the  common  hangman  by  the  Boston  Post.  How 
ever,  the  London  Examiner  &  Literary  Gazette  &  other  pa 
pers  this  side  of  the  water  have  done  differently.  These 
attacks  are  matters  of  course,  and  are  essential  to  the  building 
up  of  any  permanent  reputation — if  such  should  ever  prove  to 
be  mine — 'There's  nothing  in  it !'  cried  the  dunce  when  he 
threw  down  the  47th  problem  of  the  ist  Book  of  Euclid— 
There's  nothing  in  it!' — Thus  with  the  posed  critic.  But 
Time,  which  is  the  solver  of  all  riddles,  will  solve  Mardi." 

The  riddle  of  Mardi  goes  near  to  the  heart  of  the  riddle  of 
Melville's  life.  "Not  long  ago,"  Melville  says  in  the  preface 
to  Mardi,  "having  published  two  narratives  of  voyages  in  the 
Pacific,  which,  in  many  quarters,  were  received  with  incred 
ulity,  the  thought  occurred  to  me,  of  indeed  writing  a  romance 
of  Polynesian  adventure,  and  publishing  it  as  such;  to  see 
whether  the  fiction  might  not,  possibly,  be  received  for  a  ver 
ity  :  in  some  degree  the  reverse  of  my  previous  experience. 
This  thought  was  the  germ  of  others,  which  have  resulted  in 
Mardi/' 

Mardi, as  Moby-Dick, starts  off  firmly  footed  in  reality.  The 
hero,  discontented  on  board  a  whaler,  hits  upon  the  wild  scheme 
of  surreptitiously  cutting  loose  one  of  the  whale  boats, 
and  trusting  to  the  chances  of  the  open  Pacific.  It  is  some 
times  the  case  that  an  old  mariner  will  conceive  a  very  strong 
attachment  for  some  young  sailor,  his  shipmate — a  Fidus- 
Achates-ship,  a  league  of  offence  and  defence,  a  copartnership 
of  chests  and  toilets,  a  bond  of  love  and  good-feeling.  Such 
a  relationship  existed  between  the  hero  of  Mardi  and  his  Vik 
ing  shipmate  Jarl.  Jarl  was  an  old  Norseman  to  behold :  his 
hands  as  brawny  as  the  paws  of  a  bear;  his  voice  as  hoarse  as 
a  storm  roaring  round  the  peak  of  Mull ;  his  long  yellow  hair 
waving  about  his  head  like  a  sunset.  In  the  crow's-nest  of  the 
ship  the  project  of  escape  was  confided  to  Jarl.  Jarl  advised 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  275 

with  elderly  prudence,  but  seeing  his  chummy's  resolution  im 
movable,  he  changed  his  wrestling  to  a  sympathetic  hug,  and 
bluntly  swore  he  would  follow  through  thick  and  thin.  The 
escape  was  successfully  made,  and  for  days  the  two  men  drifted 
at  sea :  and  it  was  an  eventful  if  solitary  drifting.  After  six 
teen  days  in  their  open  boat,  "as  the  expanded  sun  touched  the 
horizon's  rim,  a  ship's  uppermost  spars  were  observed,  traced 
like  a  spider's  web  against  its  crimson  disk.  It  looked  like  a 
far-off  craft  on  fire."  Bent  upon  shunning  a  meeting — though 
Jarl  "kept  looking  wistfully  over  his  shouler;  doubtlessly  pray 
ing  Heaven  that  we  might  not  escape" — they  lowered  sail.  As 
the  ship  bore  down  towards  them,  they  saw  her  to  be  no  whaler 
—as  they  had  feared — but  a  small,  two-masted  craft  in  unac 
countable  disarray.  They  lay  on  their  oars,  and  watched  her 
in  the  starlight.  They  hailed  her  loudly.  No  return.  Again. 
But  all  was  silent.  So,  armed  with  a  harpoon,  they  even 
tually  boarded  the  strange  craft.  The  ship  was  in  a  complete 
litter;  the  deserted  tiller  they  found  lashed.  Though  it  was  a 
nervous  sort  of  business,  they  explored  her  interior.  Many 
were  the  puzzling  sights  they  saw ;  but  except  for  a  supernat 
ural  sneeze  from  the  riggings,  there  was  no  evidence  of  life 
aboard.  At  dawn,  however,  they  discovered,  in  the  maintop, 
a  pair  of  South  Sea  Islanders :  Samoa,  and  Annatoo.  "To  be 
short,  Annatoo  was  a  Tartar,  a  regular  Calmuc ;  and  Samoa — 
Heaven  help  him — her  husband."  Upon  this  pair,  Melville 
has  lavished  chapter  after  chapter  of  the  most  finished  and 
competent  comedy.  Annatoo  is  as  perfect,  in  her  way,  as  is 
Zuleika  Dobson.  And  Samoa — well,  Samoa,  on  occasion, 
thinks  it  discreet  to  amputate  his  wounded  arm. 

"Among  savages,  severe  personal  injuries  are,  for  the  most 
part,  accounted  but  trifles.  When  a  European  would  be  taking 
to  his  couch  in  despair,  the  savage  would  disdain  to  recline. 

"More  yet.  In  Polynesia,  every  man  is  his  own  barber  and 
surgeon,  cutting  off  his  beard  or  arm,  as  occasion  demands. 
No  unusual  thing,  for  the  warriors  of  Varvoo  to  saw  off  their 
own  limbs,  desperately  wounded  in  battle.  But  owing  to  the 
clumsiness  of  the  instrument  employed — a  flinty,  serrated  shell 
— the  operation  has  been  known  to  last  several  days.  Nor 


276  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

will  they  suffer  any  friend  to  help  them;  maintaining,  that  a 
matter  so  nearly  concerning  a  warrior  is  far  better  attended 
to  by  himself.  Hence  it  may  be  said,  that  they  amputate  them 
selves  at  their  leisure,  and  hang  up  their  tools  when  tired. 
But,  though  thus  beholden  to  no  one  for  aught  connected  with 
the  practice  of  surgery,  they  never  cut  off  their  own  heads, 
that  ever  I  heard;  a  species  of  amputation  to  which,  metaphor 
ically  speaking,  many  would-be  independent  sort  of  people  in 
civilised  lands  are  addicted. 

"Samoa's  operation  was  very  summary.  A  fire  was  kindled 
in  the  little  caboose,  or  cook-house,  and  so  made  as  to  produce 
much  smoke.  He  then  placed  his  arm  upon  one  of  the  windlass 
bitts  (a  short  upright  timber,  breast-high),  and  seizing  the 
blunt  cook's  axe  would  have  struck  the  blow;  but  for  some 
reason  distrusting  the  precision  of  his  aim,  Annatoo  was  as 
signed  to  the  task.  Three  strokes,  and  the  limb,  from  just 
above  the  elbow,  was  no  longer  Samoa's ;  and  he  saw  his  own 
bones ;  which  many  a  centenarian  can  not  say.  The  very  clum 
siness  of  the  operation  was  safety  to  the  subject.  The  weight 
and  bluntness  of  the  instrument  both  deadened  the  pain  and 
lessened  the  hemorrhage.  The  wound  was  then  scorched,  and 
held  over  the  smoke  of  the  fire,  till  all  signs  of  blood  vanished. 
From  that  day  forward  it  healed,  and  troubled  Samoa  but  little. 

"But  shall  the  sequel  be  told?  How  that,  superstitiously 
averse  to  burying  in  the  sea  the  dead  limb  of  a  body  yet  living ; 
since  in  that  case  Samoa  held,  that  he  must  very  soon  drown 
and  follow  it;  and  how,  that  equally  dreading  to  keep  the 
thing  near  him,  he  at  last  hung  it  aloft  from  the  topmast-stay; 
where  yet  it  was  suspended,  bandaged  over  and  over  in  cere 
ments.  The  hand  that  must  have  locked  many  others  in 
friendly  clasp,  or  smote  a  foe,  was  no  food,  thought  Samoa, 
for  fowls  of  the  air  nor  fishes  of  the  sea. 

"Now,  which  was  Samoa  ?  The  dead  arm  swinging  high  as 
Haman?  Or  the  living  trunk  below?  Was  the  arm  severed 
from  the  body,  or  the  body  from  the  arm  ?  The  residual  part 
of  Samoa  was  alive,  and  therefore  we  say  it  was  he.  But 
which  of  the  writhing  sections  of  a  ten  times  severed  worm, 
is  the  worm  proper?" 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  277 

There  are  more  cosy  pleasures  aboard  the  old  ship,  how 
ever,  than  amputation :  "Every  one  knows  what  a  fascination 
there  is  in  wandering  up  and  down  in  a  deserted  old  tenement 
in  some  warm,  dreamy  country;  where  the  vacant  halls  seem 
echoing  of  silence,  and  the  doors  creak  open  like  the  footsteps 
of  strangers;  and  into  every  window  the  old  garden  trees 
thrust  their  dark  boughs,  like  the  arms  of  night-burglars;  and 
ever  and  anon  the  nails  start  from  the  wainscot;  while  behind 
it  the  mice  rattle  like  dice.  Up  and  down  in  such  old  spectre 
houses  one  loves  to  wander;  and  so  much  the  more,  if  the  place 
be  haunted  by  some  marvellous  story. 

"And  during  the  drowsy  stillness  of  the  tropical  sea-day, 
very  much  such  a  fancy  had  I,  for  prying  about  our  little 
brigantine,  whose  tragic  hull  was  haunted  by  the  memory  of 
the  massacre,  of  which  it  still  bore  innumerable  traces." 

After  delightful  and  exciting,  and  irresponsible  days  spent 
sailing  without  chart,  they  find  the  vessel  unseaworthy,  leak 
ing  in  every  pore;  so  again  they  take  to  their  whale  boat 
soon  to  fall  in  with  strangers.  With  this  meeting,  Mardi 
swings  into  allegory, — and  then  it  is  that  Melville  first  tries 
his  hand  at  the  orphic  style. 

This  second  part  of  Mardi  in  its  manner  defies  simple  char 
acterisation,  though  its  purpose  is  simple  enough.  It  is  a  quest 
after  Yillah,  a  maiden  from  Oroolia,  the  Island  of  Delight. 
A  voyage  is  made  through  the  civilised  world  for  her:  and 
though  they  find  occasion  for  much  discourse  on  international 
politics,  and  an  array  of  other  topics,  Yillah  is  not  found.  And 
in  an  astonishing  variety  of  fantastic  and  symbolic  scenes — 
many  conceived  in  the  manner  of  the  last  three  books  of  Rabe 
lais — they  go  on  in  futile  search  for  her.  They  search  among 
the  Islands  of  "those  Scamps  the  Plujii,"  where  all  evil  which 
the  inhabitants  could  impute  neither  to  the  gods  nor  to  them 
selves  were  blamed  upon  the  Plujii.  There  they  meet  an  "old 
woman  almost  doubled  together,  both  hands  upon  her  ab 
domen;  in  that  manner  running  about  distracted."  When 
asked  of  the  occasion  of  her  distraction  she  screamed  "The 
Plujii!  The  Plujii!"  affectionately  caressing  the  field  of  their 
operations. 


278  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

"And  why  do  they  torment  you  ?"  she  was  soothingly  asked. 

"How  should  I  know?  and  what  good  would  it  do  me  if  I 
did?" 

And  on  she  ran. 

"Hearing  that  an  hour  or  two  previous  she  had  been  par 
taking  of  some  twenty  unripe  bananas,  I  rather  fancied  that 
that  circumstance  might  have  had  something  to  do  with  her 
suffering.  But  whatever  it  was,  all  the  herb-leeches  on  the 
island  would  not  have  been  able  to  alter  her  own  opinions  on 
the  subject." 

They  visit  jolly  old  Borabolla,  and  discuss  the  hereafter  of 
fish.  "As  for  the  possible  hereafter  of  the  whale,"  says  Mel 
ville,  "a  creature  eighty  feet  long  without  stockings,  and  thirty 
feet  round  the  waist  after  dinner  is  not  inconsiderably  to  be 
consigned  to  annihilation."  They  are  entertained  by  the  gentry 
of  Pimminee,  and  their  host,  being  told  they  were  strolling 
divinities,  demigods  from  the  sun  "manifested  not  the  slightest 
surprise,  observing  incidentally,  however,  that  the  eclipses  there 
must  be  a  sad  bore  to  endure."  They  are  entertained  by  the 
pallid  and  beautiful  youth  Donjalolo,  with  wives  thirty  in 
number,  corresponding  in  name  to  the  nights  of  the  moon : 
wives  "blithe  as  larks,  more  playful  than  kittens,"  though  "but 
supplied  with  the  thirtieth  part  of  all  that  Aspasia  could  de 
sire."  Over  flowing  calabashes  they  discourse  of  super-men, 
and  vitalism,  and  toad-stools,  and  fame,  and  thieves,  and 
teeth,  and  democracy,  and  an  interminable  variety  of  other 
irrelevant  and  diverting  matters.  Incredible  is  the  rich  variety 
of  Mardi. 

There  is  infinite  laughter  in  the  book — but  the  laughter  is 
at  bottom  the  laughter  of  despair.  "It  is  more  pleasing  to 
laugh,  than  to  weep,"  Montaigne  has  said.  But  Montaigne  pre 
ferred  laughter  not  for  that  reason,  but  because  "it  is  more 
distainfull,  and  doth  more  condemne  us  than  the  other.  And 
me  thinkes  we  can  never  bee  sufficiently  despised  according  to 
our  merit."  Melville's  laughter,  however,  grew  out  of  a  deso 
lation  less  emancipated  than  Montaigne's.  "Let  us  laugh:  let 
us  roar :  let  us  yell."  Melville  makes  the  philosopher  in  Mardi 
say:  "Weeds  are  torn  off  at  a  fair;  no  heart  bursts  but  in 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  279 

secret ;  it  is  good  to  laugh  though  the  laugh  be  hollow.  Women 
sob,  and  are  rid  of  their  grief;  men  laugh  and  retain  it.  Ha! 
ha !  how  demoniacs  shout ;  how  all  skeletons  grin ;  we  all 
die  with  a  rattle.  Humour,  thy  laugh  is  divine ;  hence  mirth- 
making  idiots  have  been  revered;  and  so  may  I."  And  one  of 
the  ultimate  discoveries  of  the  book  is:  "Beatitude  there  is 
none.  And  your  only  Mardian  happiness  is  but  exemption 
from  great  woes — no  more.  Great  Love  is  sad ;  and  heaven  is 
Love.  Sadness  makes  the  silence  throughout  the  realms  of 
space;  sadness  is  universal  and  eternal." 

For  Mardi,  in  its  intention  to  show  the  vanity  of  human 
wishes,  is  a  kind  of  Rasselas;  but  because  of  its  "dangerous 
predominance  of  imagination,"  it  is  a  Rasselas  Dr.  Johnson 
would  have  despised.  And  the  happiness  sought  in  Mardi  is 
of  a  brand  of  felicity  unlike  anything  the  Prince  of  Abyssinia 
ever  had  any  itching  to  enjoy.  Mardi  is  a  quest  after  some 
total  and  undivined  possession  of  that  holy  and  mysterious 
joy  that  touched  Melville  during  the  period  of  his  courtship: 
a  joy  he  had  felt  in  the  crucifixion  of  his  love  for  his  mother; 
a  joy  that  had  dazzled  him  in  his  love  for  Elizabeth  Shaw. 
When  he  wrote  Mardi  he  was  married,  and  his  wife  was  with 
child.  And  Mardi  is  a  pilgrimage  for  a  lost  glamour. 

In  these  wanderings  in  search  of  Yillah,  the  symbol  of  this 
faded  ecstasy,  the  hero  of  Mardi  is  pursued  by  three  shadowy 
messengers  from  the  temptress  Hautia;  she  who  was  descended 
from  the  queen  who  had  first  incited  Mardi  to  wage  war 
against  beings  with  wings.  Despairing  of  ever  achieving  Yil 
lah,  Melville  in  the  end  turned  towards  the  island  of  Hautia, 
called  Flozella-a-Nina,  or  "The  Last-Verse-of-the-Song." 
"Yillah  was  all  beauty,  and  innocence;  my  crown  of  felicity; 
my  heaven  below: — and  Hautia,  my  whole  heart  abhorred. 
Yillah  I  sought;  Hautia  sought  me.  Yet  now  I  was  wildly 
dreaming  to  find  them  together.  In  some  mysterious  way 
seemed  Hautia  and  Yillah  connected.'* 

They  land  on  the  shore  of  Hautia' s  bower  of  bliss,  when 
"all  the  sea,  like  a  harvest  plain,  was  stacked  with  glittering 
sheaves  of  spray.  And  far  down,  fathoms  on  fathoms,  flitted 
rainbow  hues: — as  seines-full  of  mermaids;  half -screening 


280  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

the  bower  of  the  drowned."  Hantia  lavished  him  with  flowers, 
and  with  wine,  that  like  a  blood-freshet  ran  through  his  veins, 
she  the  vortex  that  draws  all  in.  "But  as  my  hand  touched 
Hautia's,  down  dropped  a  dead  bird  from  the  clouds."  And 
at  the  end  of  the  madness  into  which  Hautia  had  betrayed  him, 
he  and  she  stood  together — "snake  and  victim:  life  ebbing 
from  out  me,  to  her." 

fin  Pierre,  Melville  sadly  reflects  upon  "the  inevitable  evan 
escence  of  all  earthly  loveliness :  which  makes  the  sweetest 
things  of  life  only  food  for  ever-devouring  and  omnivorous 
melancholy."  And  the  nuptial  embrace,  he  says,  breaks  love's 
airy  zone.  The  etherealisations  of  the  filial  breast,  he  wrote, 
while  contemporary  with  courtship,  preceding  the  final  banns 
and  the  rites,  "like  the  bouquet  of  the  costliest  German  wines, 
too  often  evaporate  upon  pouring  love  out  to  drink  in  the  dis 
enchanting  glasses  of  the  matrimonial  days  and  nights."  "I 
am  Pluto  stealing  Proserpine,"  says  Pierre;  "and  every  ac 
cepted  lover  is.  I  am  of  heavy  earth,  and  she  of  airy  light. 
By  heaven,  but  marriage  is  an  impious  thing  Ff 

Yillah  was  to  Melville  lost  for  ever;  and  in  Hautia  was  a 
final  disillusionment.  And  on  the  shore,  awaiting  to  destroy, 
"stood  the  three  pale  sons  of  him  I  had  slain  to  gain  the  lost 
maiden,  sworn  to  hunt  me  round  eternity." 

"  'Hail !  realm  of  shades !'  " — so  Mardi  concludes — "and 
turning  my  prow  into  the  racing  tide,  which  seized  me  like  a 
hand  omnipotent,  I  darted  through.  Churned  in  foam,  that 
outer  ocean  lashed  the  clouds ;  and  straight  in  my  white  wake, 
headlong  dashed  a  shallop,  three  fixed  spectres  leaning  o'er  its 
prow :  three  arrows  poising.  And  thus,  pursuers  and  pursued 
fled  on,  over  an  endless  sea." 

Within  a  week  of  the  completion  of  Mardi,  Melville's  wife 
wrote  to  her  mother : 

"I  suppose  by  this  time  that  you  have  received  Sam's  letter 
and  are  relieved  of  anxiety  concerning  his  safe  arrival.  I  was 
very  glad  to  see  him  at  last  &  hope  he  will  enjoy  his  vacation. 
You  need  not  fear  his  getting  too  much  excited — he  will  not 
take  too  much  exercise,  for  he  can  always  get  in  an  omnibus 


INTO  THE  RACING  TIDE  281 

when  he  feels  tired  of  walking.  Yesterday  he  went  down 
town  with  Tom — to  the  Battery — and  to  a  gallery  of  paintings 
— and  in  the  afternoon  took  a  short  walk  with  the  girls.  We 
should  have  gone  to  Brooklyn,  but  it  was  very  cloudy  and 
looked  like  rain — but  we  are  going  to-day  as  soon  as  I  get 
done  my  copying  (by  the  way  we  are  nearly  through — shall 
finish  this  week).  Sam  is  very  well  and  finds  .much  amuse 
ment,  especially  in  the  'ad-i-s-h-e-e-e-s !'  (radishes)  screamed 
continually  under  our  window  in  every  variety  of  cracked 
voices. 

"I  was  very  much  pleased  with  my  presents  especially  the 
'boots'  which  fit  me  admirably — but  I  meant  that  to  be  a  busi 
ness  transaction — else  I  should  not  have  sent.  'Tapes'  are 
always  useful,  especially  if  one  has  a  husband  who  is  continu 
ally  breaking  strings  off  of  drawers  as  mine  is — the  cuffs 
were  very  pretty  also — Herman  was  very  much  pleased  with 
his  pocket-book  &  says  'he  has  long  needed  such  an  article, 
for  his  bank  bills  accumulate  to  such  an  extent  he  can  find 
no  place  to  put  them.' 

"Mother  feels  very  uneasy  because  Tom  wants  to  go  to  sea 
again — he  has  been  trying  for  a  place  in  some  store  ever  since 
he  came  home  but  not  succeeding,  is  discouraged  and  says  he 
must  go  to  sea  immediately.  Herman  has  written  Mr.  Parker 
(Daniel  P.)  to  see  if  he  can  send  him  out  in  one  of  his  ships. 
I  hope  he  will,  if  Tom  must  go,  for  Mr.  Parker  would  be  likely 
to  take  an  interest  in  him  and  promote  him. 

"And  now  for  something  which  I  hardly  know  whether  to 
write  you  or  not  I  feel  so  undecided  about  it.  My  cold  is  very 
bad  indeed,  perhaps  worse  than  it  has  ever  been  so  early,  and 
I  attribute  it  entirely  to  the  warm  dry  atmosphere  so  different 
from  the  salt  air  I  have  been  accustomed  to.  And  Herman 
thinks  I  had  better  go  back  to  Boston  with  Sam  to  see  if  the 
change  of  air  will  not  benefit  me.  And  he  will  come  on  for 
me  in  two  or  three  weeks,  if  he  can — and  then  in  August  when 
he  takes  his  vacation  he  will  take  me  there  again.  But  I  don't 
know  as  I  can  make  up  my  mind  to  go  and  leave  him  here — 
and  besides  I'm  afraid  to  trust  him  to  finish  up  the  book  with- 


282  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

out  me !  That  is,  taking  all  things  into  consideration  I'm  afraid 
I  should  not  feel  at  ease  enough  to  enjoy  my  visit  without  him 
with  me.  But  there  is  time  enough  to  consider  about  it  before 
Sam  goes — and  if  my  cold  continues  so  bad  I  think  I  shall  go. 
But  I  must  go  to  my  writing  else  I  shall  not  get  done  in  time 
to  go  to  Brooklyn." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN 

"You  said  you  were  married,  I  think?  Well,  I  suppose  it  is  wise,  after 
all.  It  settles,  centralises,  and  confirms  a  man,  I  have  heard.  Yes,  it 
makes  the  world  definite  to  him;  it  removes  his  morbid  subjectiveness, 
and  makes  all  things  objective;  nine  small  children,  for  instance,  may  be 
considered  objective.  Marriage,  hey! — A  fine  thing,  no  doubt,  no  doubt: — 
domestic — pretty — nice,  all  round. — So  you  are  married?" 

— HERMAN   MELVILLE  :   Pierre. 

IN  October,  1849,  a*  the  age  of  thirty,  five  years  after  his 
return  from  the  South  Seas,  and  two  years  after  his  marriage, 
Melville  again  left  home.  His  departure  was  not  prompted 
by  any  lack  of  diversion  at  home:  there  had  been  plenty  of  it 
at  103  Fourth  Avenue.  Melville's  brothers  Allan  and  Tom, 
his  sisters  Augusta,  Fanny  and  Helen,  his  mother,  his  wife, 
and  the  visits  from  Boston  of  the  Shaws,  had  been  a  suffi 
ciently  varied  company  to  divert  any  lover  of  humanity,  and 
to  enamour  a  misanthrope  to  the  family  hearth.  Withal, 
Melville  was  not  only  a  husband,  but  a  father :  and  duties  to 
wards  the  support  of  the  company  with  whom  he  lived  were 
blatantly  clear.  For  this  support  he  depended  solely  upon  the 
earnings  from  his  books.  In  three  years  he  had  published  five 
volumes :  Typee,  Omoo,  Mardi  (in  two  volumes)  and  Redburn. 
Though  he  had  attracted  wide  attention  as  a  writer,  he  was, 
nevertheless,  in  debt  to  his  publishers.  Despite  sisters,  and 
brothers,  and  wives,  and  babies,  and  mothers,  and  callers,  he 
had  stuck  relentlessly  to  his  desk,  and  another  book- — White- 
Jacket — he  had  finished  in  manuscript.  His,  as  well  as  his  sis 
ter  Augusta's,  was  "a  pressing  case."  So  he  decided  to  go  to 
England,  to  make  personal  intercession  with  publishers,  hop 
ing  thereby  to  improve  his  income  from  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic. 

On  October  1 1,  1849,  after  a  detention  of  three  or  four  days, 
owing  to  wind  and  weather,  he  went  on  board  the  tug  Goliath 

283 


284  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

a  little  after  noon.  A  violent  storm  was  blowing  from  the 
west,  and  with  some  confusion  the  passengers  were  trans 
ferred  to  the  Southampton,  a  regular  London  liner  that  lay  in 
the  North  River.  By  half -past  five,  with  yards  square,  and 
sailing  in  half  a  gale,  Melville  was  again  out  of  sight  of  land. 

"As  the  ship  dashed  on,"  says  Melville  in  his  journal  of  the 
trip,  "under  double-reefed  topsails,  I  walked  the  deck,  think 
ing  of  what  they  might  be  doing  at  home,  and  of  the  last 
familiar  faces  I  saw  on  the  wharf — Allan  was  there,  and 
George  Duyckinck,  and  a  Mr.  McCurdy,  a  rich  merchant  of 
New  York,  who  had  seemed  somewhat  interested  in  the  pros 
pect  of  his  son  (a  sickly  youth  of  twenty,  bound  for  the  grand 
tour)  being  very  romantic.  But  to  my  great  delight,  the  prom 
ise  that  the  Captain  had  given  me  at  an  early  day,  he  now 
made  good;  and  I  find  myself  in  the  individual  occupancy  of  a 
large  state-room.  It  is  as  big  almost  as  my  own  room  at  home ; 
it  has  a  spacious  berth,  a  large  wash-stand,  a  sofa,  glass,  etc., 
etc.  I  am  the  only  person  on  board  who  is  thus  honoured  with 
a  room  to  himself.  I  have  plenty  of  light,  and  a  little  thick 
glass  window  in  the  side,  which  in  fine  weather  I  may  open  to 
the  air.  I  have  looked  out  upon  the  sea  from  it,  often,  tho 
not  yet  24  hours  on  board." 

The  George  Duyckinck  who  was  among  the  party  that  had 
waved  him  off  was,  of  course,  one  of  two  Duyckinck  brothers 
who  published  in  1855  the  two  volume  Cyclopaedia  of  Ameri 
can  Literature:  a  work  vituperated  in  its  day  for  shocking  omis 
sions  and  inaccuracies.  Both  the  work  and  its  critics  have  now 
fallen  into  a  decent  oblivion.  Withal,  in  this  same  antiquated 
Cyclopaedia  is  to  be  found  one  of  the  best  informed  summaries 
of  the  first  half  of  Melville's  life  ever  printed. 

On  October  12,  Melville  records  in  his  journal  his  impres 
sions  upon  finding  himself  again  on  the  ocean.  "Walked  the 
deck  last  night  till  about  eight  o'clock,"  he  says,  "then  made 
up  a  whist  party  and  played  till  one  of  the  number  had  to  visit 
his  room  from  sickness.  Retired  early  and  had  a  sound  sleep. 
Was  up  betimes  and  aloft,  to  recall  the  old  emotions  of  being 
at  the  mast-head.  Found  that  the  ocean  looked  the  same  as 
ever.  Have  tried  to  read  but  find  it  hard  work.  However, 


ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN     285 

there  are  some  very  pleasant  passengers  on  board,  with  whom 
to  converse.  Chief  among  these  is  a  Mr.  Adler,  a  German 
scholar,  to  whom  Duyckinck  introduced  me.  He  is  author  of 
a  formidable  lexicon  (German  or  English) ;  in  compiling 
which  he  almost  ruined  his  health.  He  was  almost  crazy,  he 
tells  me,  for  a  time.  He  is  full  of  the  German  metaphysics 
and  discourses  of  Kant,  Swedenborg,  etc.  He  has  been  my 
principal  companion  thus  far.  There  is  also  a  Mr.  Taylor 
among  the  passengers,  cousin  of  James  Bayard  Taylor,  the 
pedestrian  traveller.  There  is  a  Scotch  artist  on  board,  a 
painter,  with  a  most  unpoetical  looking  child,  a  young-one  all 
cheeks  and  forehead,  the  former  preponderating.  Young  Mc- 
Curdy  I  find  to  be  a  lisping  youth  of  genteel  capacity,  but 
quite  disposed  to  be  sociable.  We  have  several  Frenchmen 
and  Englishmen.  One  of  the  latter  has  been  hunting,  and 
carries  over  with  him  two  glorious  pairs  of  antlers  (moose) 
as  trophies  of  his  prowess  in  the  Woods  of  Maine.  We  have 
also  a  middle-aged  English  woman,  who  sturdily  walks  the 
decks  and  prides  herself  upon  her  sea-legs,  and  being  an  old 
tar."  There  was  also  aboard  "a  Miss  Wilbur  (I  think)  of 
New  York."  Melville  reports  of  Miss  Wilbur  that  she  "is  of 
a  marriageable  age,  keeps  a  diary,  and  talks  about  'winning 
souls  to  Christ/  '  In  the  evening,  Melville  "walked  the  deck 
with  the  German,  Mr.  Adler,  till  a  late  hour,  talking  of  'Fixed 
Fate,  Free-will,  free-knowledge  absolute'  etc.  His  philosophy 
is  Coleridgean;  he  accepts  the  Scriptures  as  divine,  and  yet 
leaves  himself  free  to  inquire  into  Nature.  He  does  not  take 
it,  that  the  Bible  is  absolutely  infallible,  and  that  anything  op 
posed  to  it  in  Science  must  be  wrong.  He  believes  that  there 
are  things  not  of  God  and  independent  of  Him, — things  that 
would  have  existed  were  there  no  God ;  such  as  that  two  and 
two  make  four;  for  it  is  not  that  God  so  decrees  mathemat 
ically,  but  that  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  the  fact  is  thus." 
On  the  following  morning,  Melville  was  up  early.  "Opened 
my  bull's  eye  window,  and  looked  out  to  the  East.  The  sun 
was  just  rising — the  horizon  was  red; — a  familiar  sight  to  me, 
reminding  me  of  old  times.  Before  breakfast,  went  up  to  the 
mast-head  by  way  of  gymnastics.  About  ten  o'clock  the  wind 


286  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

rose,  the  sun  fell,  and  the  deck  looked  dismally  empty.  By 
dinner  time,  it  blew  half  a  gale,  and  the  passengers  mostly 
retired  to  their  rooms,  sea-sick.  After  dinner,  the  rain  ceased, 
but  it  still  blew  stiffly,  and  we  were  slowly  forging  along  un 
der  close-reefed  top-sails — mainsail  furled.  I  was  walking  the 
deck,  when  I  perceived  one  of  the  steerage  passengers  looking 
over  the  side;  I  looked  too,  and  saw  a  man  in  the  water,  his 
head  completely  lifted  above  the  waves, — about  twelve  feet 
from  the  ship,  right  amast  the  gangway.  For  an  instant,  I 
thought  I  was  dreaming;  for  no  one  else  seemed  to  see  what 
I  did.  Next  moment,  I  shouted  'Man  Overboard !'  and  turned 
to  go  aft.  I  dropped  overboard  the  tackle-fall  of  the  quarter- 
boat,  and  swung  it  toward  the  man,  who  was  now  drifting 
close  to  the  ship.  He  did  not  get  hold  of  it,  and  I  got  over 
the  side,  within  a  foot  or  two  of  the  sea,  and  again  swung 
the  rope  toward  him.  He  now  got  hold  of  it.  By  this  time,  a 
crowd  of  people — sailors  and  others — were  clustering  about 
the  bulwarks;  but  none  seemed  very  anxious  tc  save  him. 
They  warned  me,  however,  not  to  fall  overboard.  After  hold 
ing  on  to  the  rope,  about  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  the  man  let 
go  of  it  and  dropped  astern  under  the  mizzen  chains.  Four  or 
five  of  the  seamen  jumped  over  into  the  chains  and  swung  him 
more  ropes.  But  his  conduct  was  unaccountable ;  he  could  have 
saved  himself,  had  he  been  so  minded.  I  was  struck  by  the 
expression  of  his  face  in  the  water.  It  was  merry.  At  last  he 
dropped  off  under  the  ship's  counter,  and  all  hands  cried  'He's 
gone !'  Running  to  the  taffrail  we  saw  him  again,  floating  off 
— saw  a  few  bubbles,  and  never  saw  him  again.  No  boat  was 
lowered,  no  sail  was  shaken,  hardly  any  noise  was  made.  The 
man  drowned  like  a  bullock.  It  afterward  turned  out,  that  he 
was  crazy,  and  had  jumped  overboard.  He  had  declared  he 
would  do  so,  several  times;  and  just  before  he  did  jump,  he 
had  tried  to  get  possession  of  his  child,  in  order  to  jump  into 
the  sea,  with  the  child  in  his  arms.  His  wife  was  miserably 
sick  in  her  berth." 

In  the  steerage  another  crazy  man  was  reported.  But  his 
lunacy  turned  out  to  be  delirium  tremens,  consequent  upon 
"keeping  drunk  for  the  last  two  months." 


ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN     287 

Sunday  the  fourteenth  was  "a  regular  blue  devil  day;  a 
gale  of  wind,  and  everybody  sick.  Saloons  deserted,  and  all 
sorts  of  nausea  heard  from  the  state-rooms.  Managed  to 
get  thro'  the  day  somehow,  by  reading  and  walking  the  deck, 
tho'  the  last  was  almost  as  much  as  my  neck  was  worth.  Saw 
a  lady  with  a  copy  of  Omoo  in  her  hand  two  days  ago.  Now 
and  then  she  would  look  up  at  me,  as  if  comparing  notes. 
She  turns  out  to  be  the  wife  of  a  young  Scotchman,  an  artist, 
going  out  to  Scotland  to  sketch  scenes  for  his  patrons  in  Al 
bany,  including  Dr.  Armsby.  He  introduced  himself  to  me  by 
mentioning  the  name  of  Mr.  Twitchell  who  painted  my  por 
trait  gratis.  He  is  a  very  unpretending  young  man,  and  looks 
more  like  a  tailor  than  an  artist.  But  appearances  are  etc. — " 
The  portrait  painted  by  Mr.  Twitchell  is  now  not  known  to 
exist. 

Monday  broke  fair.  "By  noon  the  passengers  were  pretty 
nearly  all  on  deck,  convalescent.  They  seem  to  regard  me  as 
a  hero,  proof  against  wind  and  weather.  My  occasional  feats 
in  the  rigging  are  regarded  as  a  species  of  tight-rope  dancing. 
Poor  Adler,  however,  is  hardly  himself  again.  He  is  an  ex 
ceedingly  amiable  man,  and  a  fine  scholar  whose  society  is  im 
proving  in  a  high  degree.  This  afternoon  Dr.  Taylor  and  I 
sketched  a  plan  for  going  down  the  Danube  from  Vienna  to 
Constantinople;  thence  to  Athens  on  the  steamer;  to  Beyrout 
and  Jerusalem — Alexandria  and  the  Pyramids.  From  what 
I  learn,  I  have  no  doubt  this  can  be  done  at  a  comparatively 
trifling  expense.  Taylor  has  had  a  good  deal  of  experience  in 
cheap  European  travel,  and  from  his  knowledge  of  German  is 
well  fitted  for  a  travelling  companion  thro  Austria  and  Turkey. 
I  am  full  (just  now)  of  this  glorious  Eastern  jaunt.  Think 
of  it: — Jerusalem  and  the  Pyramids — Constantinople,  the 
Egean  and  also  Athens! — The  wind  is  not  fair  yet,  and  there 
is  much  growling  consequently.  Drank  a  small  bottle  of 
London  stout  to-day  for  dinner,  and  think  it  did  me  good.  I 
wonder  how  much  they  charge  for  it?  I  must  find  out." 

On  the  sixteenth  his  journal  looks  back  towards  home. 
"What's  little  Barney  about?"  he  asks  of  his  son  Malcolm. 
And  of  his  wife:  "Where's  Orianna?"  Four  days  later,  hav- 


288  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ing  been  "annoyed  towards  morning  by  a  crying  baby  adjoin 
ing"  he  repeats  this  simple  catechism. 

The  entire  morning  of  the  eighteenth — the  day  delightful 
and  the  ship  getting  on  famously — Melville  spent  "in  the  main 
top  with  Adler  and  Dr.  Taylor,  discussing  our  plans  for  the 
grand  circuit  of  Europe  and  the  East.  Taylor,  however,  has 
communicated  to  me  a  circumstance  that  may  prevent  him  from 
accompanying  us — something  of  a  pecuniary  nature.  He 
reckons  our  expenses  at  $400."  Though  Melville  played  with 
this  idea  of  the  trip  into  the  East  for  some  days,  he  in  the  end 
was  forced  by  lack  of  funds  to  give  it  up.  Not  until  1856  did 
he  see  Greece,  and  Constantinople,  and  the  Holy  Land,  and 
then  under  tragic  circumstances. 

The  rest  of  the  week  went  by  eventlessly.  Melville  read, 
lounged,  played  cards,  went  into  the  Ladies'  Saloon  for  the 
first  time,  there  to  "hear  Mrs.  Gould,  the  opera  lady,  sing." 
When  he  comes  to  Sunday,  October  21,  he  is  unusually  laconic : 
on  ship  board  at  least,  Melville  was  in  a  mood  to  sympathise 
•with  Fielding's  liberties  with  the  calendar  in  Tom  Jones  in 
counting  six  secular  days  as  a  full  week.  "Cannot  remember 
what  happened  to-day,"  he  writes;  "it  came  to  an  end  some 
how."  But  on  the  morrow,  his  memory  cleared.  "I  forgot  to 
mention  that  last  night  about  9:30  P.  M.,  Adler  and  Taylor 
came  into  my  room,  and  it  was  proposed  to  have  whiskey 
punches,  which  we  did  have  accordingly.  Adler  drank  about 
three  tablespoons  full — Taylor  four  or  five  tumblers,  etc.  We 
had  an  extraordinary  time  and  did  not  break  up  till  after  two  in 
the  morning.  We  talked  metaphysics  continually,  and  Hegel, 
Schlegel,  Kant,  etc.,  were  discussed  under  the  influence  of  the 
whiskey.  I  shall  not  forget  Adler's  look  when  he  quoted  La 
Place  the  French  astronomer — 'It  is  not  necessary,  gentlemen, 
to  account  for  these  worlds  by  the  hypothesis',  etc.  After  Ad 
ler  retired,  Taylor  and  I  went  out  on  the  bowsprit — splendid 
spectacle."  Three  days  later  there  was  further  inducement  to 
metaphysical  discussion.  "By  evening  blew  a  very  stiff  breeze 
and  we  dashed  on  in  magnificent  style.  Fine  moonlight  night, 
and  we  rushed  on  thro'  snow-banks  of  foam.  McCurdy  in- 
yited  Adler,  the  Doctor  and  I  into  his  room  and  ordered  cham- 


ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN     289 

pagne.  Went  on  deck  again  and  remained  till  near  midnight. 
The  scene  was  indescribable — I  never  saw  such  sailing  be 
fore." 

On  Saturday,  October  27 :  "Steered  our  course  in  a  wind.  I 
played  shuffle-board  for  the  first  time.  Ran  about  aloft  a 
good  deal.  McCurdy  invited  Adler,  Taylor  and  I  to  partake 
of  some  mulled  wine  with  him,  which  we  did,  in  my  room. 
Got — all  of  us — riding  on  the  German  horse  again.  Taylor 
has  not  been  in  Germany  in  vain.  We  sat  down  to  whist,  and 
separated  at  about  three  in  the  morning." 

On  the  morrow,  "Decks  very  wet,  and  hard  work  to  take 
exercise.  ('Where  dat  old  man  ?')  Read  a  little,  dozed  a  little 
and  to  bed  early."  So  passed  another  vacant  Sabbath.  In 
the  margin  opposite  "Where  dat  old  man?"  Melville's  wife  has 
added  in  pencil :  "Macky's  baby  words."  Melville  thrice  quotes 
this  question  of  Malcolm's — and  each  time  Mrs.  Melville  ex 
plains  it  in  the  margin,  and  initials  her  explanation  each  time. 
The  third  time  she  writes :  "First  words  of  baby  Malcolm's. 
E.S.M." 

Monday  was  wet  and  foggy.  Some  of  the  passengers  were 
sick.  "In  the  afternoon  tried  to  create  some  amusement  by 
arraigning  Adler  before  the  Captain  in  a  criminal  charge.  In 
the  evening  put  the  Captain  in  the  chains,  and  argued  the  ques 
tion  'which  was  best,  a  monarchy  or  a  republic?'  Had  some 
good  sport  during  the  debate — the  Englishman  wouldn't  take 
part  in  it  tho'. — After  claret  and  stout  with  Monsieur  Moran 
and  Taylor,  went  on  deck  and  found  it  a  moonlight  midnight. 
Wind  astern.  Retired  at  i  A.  M." 

On  November  i,  Melville  wrote:  "Just  three  weeks  from 
home,  and  made  the  land — Start  Point — about  3  P.  M. — well 
up  channel — passed  the  Lizzard.  Very  fine  day — great  num 
ber  of  ships  in  sight.  Thro'  these  waters  Blake's  and  Nelson's 
ships  once  sailed.  Taylor  suggested  that  he  and  I  should  re 
turn  McCurdy's  civilities.  We  did,  and  Captain  Griswold 
joined  and  ordered  a  pitcher  of  his  own.  The  Captain  is  a  very 
intelligent  and  gentlemanly  man — converses  well  and  under 
stands  himself.  I  never  was  more  deceived  in  a  person  than 
I  was  in  him.  Retired  about  midnight.  Taylor  played  a  rare 


290  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

joke  upon  McCurdy  this  evening,  passing  himself  off  as  Miss 
Wilbur,  having  borrowed  her  cloak,  etc.  They  walked  to 
gether.  Shall  see  Portsmouth  to-morrow  morning." 

Saturday,  Nov.  3rd :  "Woke  about  six  o'clock  with  an  insane 
idea  that  we  were  going  before  the  wind,  and  would  be  in 
Portsmouth  in  an  hour's  time.  Soon  found  out  my  mistake. 
About  eight  o'clock  took  a  pilot,  who  brought  some  papers 
two  weeks  old.  Made  the  Isle  of  Wight  about  10  A.  M. 
High  land — the  Needles — Wind  ahead  and  tacking.  Get  in 
to-night  or  to-morrow — or  next  week  or  year.  Devilish  dull, 
and  too  bad  altogether.  Continued  tacking  all  day  with  a  light 
wind  from  West.  Isle  of  Wight  in  sight  all  day  and  numerous 
ships.  In  the  evening  all  hands  in  high  spirits.  Played  chess 
in  the  ladies*  saloon — another  party  at  cards;  good  deal  of 
singing  in  the  gentlemen's  cabin  and  drinking — very  hilarious 
and  noisy.  Last  night  every  one  thought.  Determined  to  go 
ashore  at  Portsmouth.  Therefore  prepared  for  it,  arranged 
my  trunk  to  be  left  behind — put  up  a  shirt  or  two  in  Adler's 
carpet  bag  and  retired  pretty  early. 

Sunday,  Nov.  4th :  "Looked  out  of  my  window  first  thing 
upon  rising  and  saw  the  Isle  of  Wight  again — very  near — 
ploughed  fields,  etc.  Light  head  wind — expected  to  be  in  a 
little  after  breakfast  time.  About  10  A.  M.  rounded  the 
Eastern  end  of  the  Isle,  when  it  fell  flat  calm.  The  town  in 
sight  by  telescope.  Were  becalmed  about  three  or  four  hours. 
Foggy,  drizzly ;  long  faces  at  dinner — no  porter  bottles.  Wind 
came  from  the  West  at  last.  Squared  the  yards  and  struck 
away  from  Dover — distant  60  miles.  Close  reefed  the  top 
sails  so  as  not  to  run  too  fast.  Expect  now  to  go  ashore  to 
morrow  morning  early  at  Dover — and  get  to  London  via 
Canterbury  Cathedral.  Mysterious  hint  dropped  me  about  my 
green  coat.  It  is  now  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  I  am 
alone  in  my  state-room — lamp  in  tumbler.  Spite  of  past  dis 
appointments,  I  feel  that  this  is  my  last  night  aboard  the  South 
ampton.  This  time  to-morrow  I  shall  be  on  land,  and  press 
English  earth  after  the  lapse  of  ten  years — then  a  sailor,  now 
H.  M.  author  of  Peedee,  Hullabaloo  and  Pog-Dog.  For  the 
last  time  I  lay  aside  my  'log'  to  add  a  line  or  two  to  Lizzie's 


ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN     291 

letter — the  last  I  shall  write  aboard.  ('Where  dat  old  man? — 
Where  looks?')" 

The  account  of  his  experiences  in  England  is  preserved  in  a 
separate  note-book,  formally  beginning:  "Commenced  this 
journal  at  25  Craven  Street  at  6-l/2  P.  M.  on  Wednesday,  Nov. 
7,  1849 — being  just  arrived  from  dinner  at  a  chop  house,  and 
feeling  like  it." 

"Mon.  Nov.  5th,  1849:  Having  at  the  invitation  of  Mc- 
Curdy  cracked  some  champagne  with  him,  I  returned  about 
midnight  to  my  state-room,  and  at  four  in  the  morning  was 
wakened  by  the  Captain  in  person,  saying  we  were  off  Dover. 
Dressed  in  a  hurry,  ran  on  deck,  and  saw  the  lights  ashore. 
A  cutter  was  alongside,  and  after  some  confusion  in  the  dark, 
we  got  off  in  her  for  the  shore.  A  comical  scene  ensued,  the 
boatman  saying  we  could  not  land  at  Dover,  but  only  at  Deal. 
So  to  Deal  we  went,  and  were  beached  there  just  at  break  of 
day.  Some  centuries  ago  a  person  called  Julius  Gesar  jumped 
ashore  about  in  this  place,  and  took  possession.  It  was  Guy 
Fawkes  day  also.  Having  left  our  baggage  (that  is,  Taylor, 
Adler  and  myself)  to  go  round  by  ship  to  London,  we  were 
wholly  non-encumbered,  and  I  proposed  walking  to  Canter 
bury — distant  18  miles,  for  an  appetite  to  breakfast.  So  we 
strode  thru  this  quaint  old  town  of  Deal,  one  of  the  Cinque 
Ports,  I  believe,  and  soon  were  in  the  open  country.  A  fine 
Autumnal  morning  and  the  change  from  ship  to  shore  was 
delightful.  Reached  Sandwich  (6  miles)  and  breakfasted  at 
a  tumble  down  old  inn.  Finished  with  ale  and  pipes,  visited 
'Richbors'  Castle' — so  called — a  Roman  fortification  near  the 
sea  shore.  An  imposing  ruin,  the  interior  was  planted  with 
cabbages.  The  walls  some  ten  feet  thick  grown  over  with 
ivy.  Walked  to  where  they  were  digging — and  saw,  defined 
by  a  trench,  the  exterior  wall  of  a  circus.  Met  the  proprietor 
— an  antiquary — who  regaled  me  with  the  history  of  the  place. 
Strolled  about  the  town,  on  our  return,  and  found  it  full  of  in 
terest  as  a  fine  specimen  of  the  old  Elizabethan  architecture. 
Kent  abounds  in  such  towns.  At  one  o'clock  took  the  2nd 
class  (no  3rd)  cars  for  Canterbury.  The  cathedral  is  on  many 
accounts  the  most  remarkable  in  England.  Henry  II,  his 


292  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

wife,  and  the  Black  Prince  are  here — and  Becket.  Fine  clois 
ters.  There  is  a  fine  thought  expressed  in  one  of  the  inscrip 
tions  on  a  tomb  in  the  nave.  Dined  at  the  Falstaff  Inn 
near  the  Westgate.  Went  to  the  theatre  in  the  evening,  &  was 
greatly  amused  at  the  performance :  More  people  on  the  stage 
than  in  the  boxes.  Ineffably  funny,  the  whole  affair.  All 
three  of  us  slept  in  one  room  at  the  inn — odd  hole. 

"Tuesday,  Nov.  6th:  Swallowed  a  glass  of  ale  and  away 
for  the  R.  R.  Station  &  off  for  London,  distant  some  80  miles. 
Took  the  third  class  car — exposed  to  the  air,  devilish  cold 
riding  against  the  wind.  Fine  day — people  sociable.  Passed 
thro  Penshurst  (P.  S.'s  place  &  Tunbridge — fine  old  ruin 
that).  Arrived  at  London  Bridge  at  noon.  Crossed  at  once 
over  into  the  city  and  down  at  a  chop-house  in  the  Poulberry 
• — having  eaten  nothing  since  the  previous  afternoon  dinner. 
Went  and  passed  St.  Paul's  to  the  Strand  to  find  our  house. 
They  referred  us  elsewhere.  Very  full.  Secured  room  at 
last  (one  for  each)  at  a  guinea  and  a  half  a  week.  Very 
cheap.  Went  down  to  the  Queen's  Hotel  to  inquire  after  our 
ship  friends — (on  the  way  green  coat  attracted  attention)  — 
not  in.  Went  to  Drury  Lane  at  Julien's  Promenade  Concerts 
(admittance  is.)  A  great  crowd  and  fine  music.  In  the 
reading  room  to  see  'Bentley's  Miscellany'  with  something 
about  Redburn.  (By  the  way,  stopped  at  a  store  in  the  Row 
&  inquired  for  the  book,  to  see  whether  it  had  been  published. 
They  offered  it  to  me  at  a  guinea).  At  Julien's  also  saw 
Blackwoods'  long  story  about  a  short  book.  It's  very  comical. 
Seemed  so,  at  least,  as  I  had  to  hurry  on  it.  But  the  wonder 
is  that  the  old  Tory  should  waste  so  many  papers  upon  a 
thing  which  I,  the  author,  know  to  be  trash,  and  wrote  it  to  buy 
some  tobacco  with.  A  good  wash  &  turned  in  early. 

"Thursday,  Nov.  8th:  Dressed,  after  breakfast  at  a  coffee 
house,  and  went  to  Mr.  Bentley's.  He  was  out  of  town  at 
Brighton.  The  notices  of  Redburn  were  shown  me. — Laugh 
able.  Staid  awhile,  and  then  to  Mr.  Murray's,  out  of  town. 
Strolled  about  and  went  into  the  National  Gallery.  Dined 
with  the  Doctor  &  Adler,  and  after  dark  a  ramble  thro' 


ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN     293 

Chancery  Lane  and  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  we  turned  into  Hoi- 
born  &  so  to  the  Princess's  Theatre  in  Oxford  Street.  Went 
into  the  pit  at  the  hall  price — one  shilling.  The  part  of  a 
Frenchman  was  very  well  played.  So  also,  skater  on  the  ice. 

"Friday,  Nov.  Qth:  Breakfasted  late  and  went  into  Cheap- 
side  to  see  the  'Lord  Mayor's  show'  it  being  the  day  of  the 
great  civic  feast  &  festivities.  A  most  bloated  pomp,  to  be 
sure.  Went  down  to  the  bridge  to  see  the  people  crowding 
there.  Crossed  by  Westminster,  thro'  the  Parks  to  the  Edge- 
ware  Road,  &  found  the  walk  delightful,  the  sun  coming  out 
a  little,  and  the  air  not  cold.  While  on  one  of  the  bridges, 
the  thought  struck  me  again  that  a  fine  story  might  be  written 
about  a  Blue  Monday  in  November  London — a  City  of  Dis 
(Dante's)  Cloud  of  Smoke — the  damned,  etc.,  coal  boxes,  oily 
waters,  etc. — its  marks  are  left  upon  you,  etc.,  etc.,  etc." 

In  Israel  Potter  (1855)  Melville  devoted  one  chapter  to  a 
description  of  London  Bridge :  a  chapter  entitled :  "In  the  City 
of  Dis."  The  description  begins:  "It  was  late  on  a  Monday 
morning  in  November — a  Blue  Monday — a  Fifth  of  Novem 
ber — Guy  Fawkes'  Day! — very  blue,  foggy,  doleful  and  gun- 
powdery,  indeed."  Melville  had  been  husbanding  for  six  years 
the  impressions  gathered  on  November  9,  1849. 

On  November  10,  Melville  received  a  reply  to  the  note  he 
had  sent  to  Bentley  announcing  his  presence  in  London. 
Bentley  expressed  a  willingness  to  come  up  from  Brighton  to 
see  Melville  at  any  time  convenient  to  Melville.  Melville  ap 
pointed  "Monday  noon,  in  New  Burlington  Street,"  and  went 
forth  again  to  explore  the  city.  He  visited  the  Temple  Courts. 
By  way  of  Cock  Lane — reflecting  on  Dr.  Johnson's  Ghost — 
he  walked  on  to  the  Charter  House,  "where  I  had  a  sociable 
chat  with  an  old  pensioner  who  guided  me  through  some  fine 
old  cloisters,  kitchens,  chapels."  Saturday  night,  with  Adler, 
he  strolled  over  to  Holborn  "vagabonding  thro'  the  courts 
and  lanes  and  looking  in  at  windows.  Stopped  at  a  penny 
theatre — very  comical.  Adler  afraid.  To  bed  early."  On 
Sunday  Melville  went  "down  to  Temple  Church  to  hear  the 
music,"  looked  in  at  St.  Paul's,  and  then,  with  Adler,  took  a 
bus  for  Hampton  Court."  They  enjoyed  the  ride  down,  the 


294  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

pictures  at  Hampton  Court,  and  then  dinner  at  the  Adelphi  in 
the  evening. 

On  Monday,  Melville  saw  Bentley.  "Very  polite,"  says 
Melville.  "Gave  me  his  note  for  £100  at  ten  days  for  Red- 
burn.  Couldn't  do  better,  he  said.  He  expressed  much  anx 
iety  and  vexation  at  the  state  of  the  copyright  question.  Pro 
posed  my  new  book  White-Jacket  to  him  and  showed  him  the 
table  of  contents.  He  was  much  pleased  with  it,  and  notwith 
standing  the  vexatious  and  uncertain  state  of  the  copyright 
matter,  he  made  me  the  following  offer :  To  pay  me  £200 
for  the  first  thousand  copies  of  the  book  (the  privilege  of  pub 
lishing  that  number)  and  as  we  might  afterwards  arrange  con 
cerning  subsequent  editions.  A  liberal  offer.  But  he  could 
make  no  advance — left  him  and  called  upon  Mr.  Murray. 
Not  in.  Out  of  town.  .  .  .  Walked  to  St.  Paul's  and  sat 
over  an  hour  in  a  dozy  state  listening  to  the  chanting  of  the 
choir.  Felt  homesick  and  sentimentally  unhappy." 

To  sweeten  his  blood,  he  sallied  forth,  with  Adler,  early 
on  the  morrow,  "to  see  the  last  end  of  the  Mannings.  An 
innumerable  crowd  in  all  the  streets.  Police  by  hundreds. 
Men  and  women  fainting.  The  man  and  w~ife  were  hung  side 
by  side — still  unreconciled  to  each  other — what  a  change  from 
the  time  they  stood  up  to  be  married  together !  The  mob  was 
brutish.  All  in  all,  a  most  wonderful,  horrible,  and  unspeak 
able  scene. — Breakfasted  about  n  A.  M.  and  went  to  the 
Zoological  Gardens,  Regent's  Park.  Very  pretty.  Fine 
giraffes.  Dreary  and  rainy  day." 

On  the  morrow  "Rigged  up  again,  and  in  my  green  jacket 
called  upon  Mr.  Murray  in  Albemarle  Street.  He  was  very 
civil,  much  vexed  about  copyright  matters.  I  proposed  White- 
Jacket  to  him — he  seemed  decidedly  pleased  and  has  since  sent 
for  the  proof  sheets,  according  to  agreement.  That  evening  we 
went  to  the  New  Strand  Theatre,  to  see  Coleman's  The  Clan 
destine  Marriage.  Melville's  comment  upon  Leigh  Murray, 
who  played  Melvil,  would  do  credit  to  the  lost  diary  of  Mrs. 
Pepys :  "the  finest  leg  I  ever  saw  on  a  man — a  devilishly  well 
turned-out  man,  upon  my  soul." 

The  day  following — November  15 — was  by  the  Queen  ap- 


ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN     295 

pointed  as  a  day  of  special  thanksgiving.  Melville  again  sal 
lied  forth  sight-seeing.  On  the  morrow  he  made  two  attempts 
to  see  Murray;  the  second  found  him  in.  "Very  polite — but 
would  not  be  in  his  line  to  publish  my  book."  On  November 
17,  Colbour  declined  Melville's  offer  of  £200  for  a  thousand 
copies  of  White-Jacket,  "and  principally  because  of  the  cussed 
state  of  the  copyright.  Bad  news  enough — I  shall  not  see 
Rome — I'm  floored — appetite  unimpaired,  however."  On  the 
1 9th,  he  saw  Longman,  to  be  told  "they  bided  by  the  original 
terms."  On  the  twentieth,  he  saw  Moxen,  the  publisher. 
"Found  him  in — sitting  alone  in  a  back  room.  He  was  at 
first  very  stiff,  cold,  clammy  and  clumsy.  Managed  to  bring 
him  to,  tho,  by  clever  speeches.  Talked  of  Charles  Lamb — he 
warmed  up  and  ended  by  saying  he  would  send  me  a  copy  of 
his  works.  He  said  he  had  often  put  Lamb  to  bed — drunk. 
He  spoke  of  Dana — he  published  D's  book  here."  Moxen 
sent  Melville  copies  of  Lamb's  works :  but  Moxen  did  not  ac 
cept  Melville's  invitation  to  publish  White-Jacket. 

On  November  22 — after  a  jovial  evening  spent  over  porter, 
gin,  brandy,  whiskey,  and  cigars — Melville  rose  late,  and  with 
a  headache.  So  he  rode  out  to  Windsor,  to  inspect  the  state 
apartments, — which  he  found  "cheerlessly  damned  fine" — and 
to  view  the  Royal  Stables.  "On  the  way  down  from  the  town, 
met  the  Queen  coming  from  visiting  the  sick  Queen  Dowager. 
Carriage  and  four  going  past  with  outriders.  The  Prince 
with  her.  My  English  friend  bowed,  so  did  I — salute  returned 
by  the  Queen  but  not  by  the  Prince.  I  would  commend  to  the 
Queen,  Rowland's  Kalydon  for  clarifying  the  complexion. 
She  is  an  amiable  domestic  woman  though,  I  doubt  not,  and 
God  bless  her,  say  I,  and  long  live  the  'Prince  of  Whales' — 
The  stables  were  splendid." 

On  Friday,  November  23,  at  quarter  to  eleven,  Melville 
"had  just  returned  from  Mr.  Murray's  where  I  dined  agree 
able  to  invitation.  It  was  a  most  amusing  affair.  Mr.  Mur 
ray  was  there  in  a  short  vest  and  dress  coat,  looking  quizzical 
enough ;  his  footman  was  there  also,  habited  in  small  clothes 
and  breeches,  revealing  a  despicable  pair  of  sheepshanks.  The 
impudence  of  the  fellow  in  showing  his  legs,  and  such  a  pair 


296  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

of  legs  too!  in  public,  I  thought  extraordinary.  The  ladies 
should  have  blushed,  one  would  have  thought,  but  they  did 
not.  Lockhart  was  there  also,  in  a  prodigious  white  cravat 
(made  from  Walter  Scott's  shroud,  I  suppose).  He  stalked 
about  like  a  half  galvanised  ghost, — gave  me  the  tips  of  two 
skinny  fingers,  when  introduced  to  me,  or  rather,  I  to  him. 
Then  there  was  a  round  faced  chap  by  the  name  of  Cook— 
who  seemed  to  be  Murray's  factotum.  His  duty  consisted  in 
pointing  out  the  portraits  on  the  wall  and  saying  that  this  or 
that  one  was  esteemed  a  good  likeness  of  the  high  and  mighty 
ghost  Lockhart.  There  were  four  or  five  others  present, 
nameless,  fifth-rate  looking  varlets  and  four  lean  women. 
One  of  them  proved  agreeable  in  the  end.  She  had  visited 
some  time  in  China.  I  talked  with  her  some  time.  Besides 
these  there  was  a  footman  or  boy  in  a  light  jacket  writh  bell- 
buttons.'' 

The  lines  following,  Melville  has  heavily  crossed  out.  They 
are,  in  most  part,  decipherable,  however,  and  they  are  not  ex 
cessively  complimentary  either  to  his  host  or  the  guest  of 
honour.  "I  managed  to  get  through,  though,  somehow,"  Mel 
ville  continues  after  this  blotted  abuse,  "by  conversing  with 
Dr.  Holland,  a  very  eminent  physician,  it  seems, — and  a  very 
affable,  intelligent  man  who  has  travelled  immensely.  After 
the  ladies  withdrew,  the  three  decanters,  port,  sherry  and 
claret,  were  kept  going  the  rounds  with  great  regularity.  I 
sat  next  to  Lockhart  and  seeing  that  he  was  a  customer  who 
was  full  of  himself  and  expected  great  homage,  and  knowing 
him  to  be  a  thoroughgoing  Tory  and  fish-blooded  Churchman 
and  conservative,  and  withal  editor  of  the  Quarterly — I  re 
frained  from  playing  the  snob  to  him  like  the  rest — and  the 
consequence  was  he  grinned  at  me  his  ghastly  smiles.  After 
returning  to  the  drawing-room  coffee  and  tea  were  served.  I 
soon  after  came  away.  After  two  more  blotted  lines,  Mel 
ville  concludes :  "Oh,  Conventionalism,  what  a  ninny  thou  art, 
to  be  sure.  And  now  I  must  turn  in." 

Melville  continued  to  interview  publishers,  and  publishers 
continued  to  chasten  him  with  reflections  on  the  state  of  the 
copyright  laws.  Between  times  he  amused  himself  as  best  he 


ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN     297 

could;  but  there  was  little  novelty,  brilliancy  or  excitement  in 
the  amusement.  He  was  once  entertained  very  formally  at 
dinner,  however :  a  Baroness  Somebody  on  his  left,  an  anony 
mous  Baron  opposite  him,  and  near  him  at  table  "a  most  lovely 
young  girl,  a  daughter  of  Captain  Chamier,  the  sea  novelist." 
And  in  these  brilliant  surroundings,  he  saw  a  copy  of  Typee 
on  a  table  in  the  drawing  room.  He  ran  upon  an  old  friend 
of  Gansevoort's,  too,  and  as  a  result  was  betrayed  into  sober 
and  sentimental  reflections.  "No  doubt,  two  years  ago,  or 
three,  Gansevoort  was  writing  here  in  London,  about  the  same 
hour  as  this — alone  in  his  chamber,  in  profound  silence,  as  I 
am  now.  This  silence,  is  a  strange  thing.  No  wonder  the 
Greeks  deemed  it  the  vestibule  to  the  higher  mysteries." 

He  paid  for  his  sentimentality,  however,  by  passing  "a 
most  extraordinary  night — one  continuous  nightmare — till 
daybreak.  Hereafter,  if  I  should  be  condemned  to  purgatory, 
I  shall  plead  the  night  of  November  25,  1849,  m  extenua 
tion  of  the  sentence." 

On  November  27,  he  abruptly  left  England,  to  find  himself, 
two  days  following,  "right  snugly  roomed  in  the  fifth  story  of 
a  lodging  house  No.  12  &  14  Rue  de  Bussy,  Paris.  It  is  the 
first  night  I  have  taken  possession,"  he  says,  "and  the  cham 
bermaid  has  lighted  a  fire  of  wood,  lit  the  candle  and  left  me 
alone,  at  n  o'clock  P.  M.  On  first  gazing  round,  I  was 
struck  by  the  apparition  of  a  bottle  containing  a  dark  fluid,  a 
glass,  a  decanter  of  water,  and  a  paper  package  of  sugar  (loaf) 
with  a  glass  basin  next  to  it.  I  protest  all  this  was  not  in  the 
bond.  But  tho  if  I  use  these  things  they  will  doubtless  be 
charged  to  me,  yet  let  us  be  charitable,  so  I  ascribe  all  this  to 
the  benevolence  of  Madame  Capelle,  my  most  polite,  pleasant 
and  Frenchified  landlady  below.  I  shall  try  the  brandy  before 
writing  more — and  now  to  resume  my  Journal."  The  account 
of  Israel  Potter's  first  night  in  Paris,  after  Benjamin  Frank 
lin  shows  him  into  lodgings  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  is  certainly 
built  upon  Melville's  experience  on  this  occasion.  Israel  finds 
in  his  room  a  heavy  plate  glass  mirror ;  and  among  the  articles 
genially  reflected  therein,  he  notes :  "seventh,  one  paper  of  loaf 
sugar,  nicely  broken  into  sugar-bowl  size;  eighth,  one  silver 


2S8  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

teaspoon;  ninth,  one  glass  tumbler;  tenth,  one  glass  decanter 
of  cool  pure  water;  eleventh,  one  sealed  bottle  containing  a 
richly  hued  liquid,  and  marked  'Otard.' '  Melville  makes  a 
chapter  out  of  Israel's  adventures  with  this  bottle  of  Otard, — 
a  chapter  in  which  Benjamin  Franklin  unburdens  himself  of 
much  almanac  moralising  upon  the  almanac  virtues. 

Despite  the  Otard,  and  the  snug  quarters,  and  the  diversions 
of  Paris — diversions  somewhat  restricted  by  Melville's  com 
plete  inability  to  speak  French — Melville  was  not  happy  every 
moment  he  was  in  France.  "Fire  made,  and  tried  to  be  com 
fortable.  But  this  is  not  home  and — but  no  repinings."  Adler 
was  in  Paris  at  the  time,  however,  and  this  somewhat  cheered 
his  solitude.  Yet  on  December  2,  when  Melville  left  Adler 
after  an  evening  of  eau  de  vie  and  cigars,  he  "strolled  out  into 
a  dark  rainy  night  and  made  my  melancholy  way  across  the 
Pont  (rather  a  biscuit's  toss  of  the  Morgue)  to  my  sixth  story 
apartment."  And  once  safely  in  his  room,  he  complained :  "I 
don't  like  that  mystic  door  tapestry  leading  out  of  the  closet." 
On  the  following  day  he  "looked  in  at  the  Morgue,"  and 
"bought  two  pair  of  gloves  and  one  pair  of  shoes  for  Lizzie." 
That  night,  he  dined  with  Adler,  and  "talked  high  German 
metaphysics  till  ten  o'clock." 

He  visited  the  Hotel  de  Cluny,  and  found  "the  house  just 
the  house  I'd  like  to  live  in."  He  made  a  half-hearted  effort 
to  see  Rachel  at  the  Theatre  Franchise,  but  failed.  He  saw 
the  obvious  sights  and  on  December  6  hurried  away  from 
Paris.  He  closes  the  record  of  his  departure  with  a  "Selah !" 
Even  in  Paris,  he  speaks  of  taking  his  "usual  bath"  upon  get 
ting  up  in  the  morning. 

He  touched  at  Brussels :  and  despite  its  architecture,  "a 
more  dull,  humdrum  place  I  never  saw :"  he  hurried  through 
Cologne,  where  he  found  "much  to  interest  a  pondering  man 
like  me."  From  Cologne  he  was  headed  for  Coblenz :  but  he 
looked  forward  to  the  voyage  with  little  eagerness :  "I  feel 
homesick  to  be  sure — being  all  alone  with  not  a  soul  to  talk 
to — but  the  Rhine  is  before  me,  and  I  must  on."  Of  Coblenz 
he  wrote :  "Most  curious  that  the  finest  wine  of  all  the  Rhine 
is  grown  right  under  the  guns  of  Ehrenbreitstein."  "Opposite 


ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN     299 

is  this  frowning  fortress — and  some  4000  miles  away  is  Amer 
ica  and  Lizzie.  To-morrow  I  am  homeward-bound !  Hurrah 
and  three  cheers!"  "In  the  horrible  long  dreary  cold  ride  to 
Ostend  on  the  coach,  in  a  fit  of  the  nightmare  was  going  to 
stop  at  a  way-place,  taking  it  for  the  place  of  my  destination." 

By  December  13,  he  was  back  to  his  old  chamber  overlook 
ing  the  Thames.  Upon  his  arrival  he  was  vaguely  told  "a 
gentleman  from  St.  James  called  in  his  coach,"  and  "was 
handed,  with  a  meaning  flourish,  a  note  sealed  with  a  coronet." 
The  note  was  from  the  Duke  of  Rutland, — perversely  called 
at  times  by  Melville,  Mr.  Rutland — inviting  Melville  to  visit 
Belvoir  Castle  "at  any  time  after  a  certain  day  in  January." 
"Cannot  go,"  Melville  writes — "I  am  homeward  bound,  and 
Malcolm  is  growing  all  the  time."  He  called  at  Bentley's  for 
letters.  "Found  one  from  Lizzie  and  Allan.  Most  welcome 
but  gave  me  the  blues  most  horribly.  Felt  like  chartering  a 
small  boat  and  starting  down  the  Thames  embarked  for  New 
York."  So  he  drank  some  punch  to  cheer  him,  and  walked 
down  the  Strand  to  buy  a  new  coat,  "so  as  to  look  decent — for 
I  found  my  green  coat  plays  the  devil  with  my  respectability 
here."  He  haunted  the  bookshops,  and  "at  last  succeeded  in 
getting  the  much  desired  copy  of  Rousseau's  Confessions/' 
as  well  as  an  1686  folio  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne. 

On  December  15,  Melville  "rigged  for  Bentley,  whom  I 
expect  to  meet  at  i  P.  M.  about  White-Jacket.  Called  but  had 
not  arrived  from  Brighton.  Walked  about  a  little  and  bought 
a  cigar  case  for  Allan  in  Burlington  Arcade.  Saw  some  pretty 
things  for  presents — but  could  not  afford  to  buy."  So  back  to 
his  room  he  came,  and  filled  up  the  time  before  four  o'clock, 
when  he  was  to  call  again  at  Bentley's,  by  writing  up  his  jour 
nal.  "He  does  not  know  that  I  am  in  town,"  Melville  writes — 
"I  earnestly  hope  that  I  shall  be  able  to  see  him  and  I  shall  be 
able  to  do  something  about  that  'pesky'  book." 

At  six  o'clock,  Melville  was  back  again  in  hi?  room.  "Hur 
rah  and  three  cheers!  I  have  just  returned  from  Mr.  Bent- 
ley's  and  have  concluded  an  arrangement  with  him  that  gives 
me  to-morrow  his  note  for  two  hundred  pounds  (sterling). 
It  is  to  be  at  6  months  and  I  am  almost  certain  I  shall  be  able 


300  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

to  get  it  cashed  at  once.  This  takes  a  load  off  my  heart.  The 
two  hundred  pounds  is  in  anticipiation,  for  the  book  is  not  to  be 
published  till  the  last  of  March  next.  Hence  the  long  time 
of  the  note.  The  above  mentioned  sum  is  for  the  first  1000 
copies,  subsequent  editions  (if  any)  to  be  jointly  divided  be 
tween  us.  At  eight  to-night  I  am  going  to  Mrs.  Daniels'. 
What  sort  of  an  evening  is  it  going  to  be?  Mr.  Bentley  invited 
me  to  dinner  for  Wednesday  at  6  P.  M.  This  will  do  for  a 
memorandum  of  the  enjoyment.  I  have  just  read  over  the 
Duke  of  Rutland's  note,  which  I  had  not  fully  perused  before. 
It  seems  very  cordial.  I  wish  the  invitation  was  for  next 
week,  instead  of  being  so  long  ahead,  but  this  I  believe  is  the 
mode  here  for  these  sort  of  invitations  into  the  country. 
(Memo.  At  i  P.  M.  on  Monday  am  to  call  at  Mr.  Bentley 's.)" 
Under  Sunday,  December  16,  Melville  wrote:  "Last  night 
went  in  a  cab  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  and  found  Mrs.  Daniel 
and  daughters.  Very  cordial.  The  elder  'daught'  remarkably 
sprightly  and  the  mother  as  nice  an  old  body  as  any  one  could 
desire.  Presently  there  came  in  several  'young  gents'  of  vari 
ous  complexions.  We  had  some  coffee,  music,  dancing,  and 
after  an  agreeable  evening  I  came  away  at  n  o'clock,  and 
walking  to  the  Cock  near  Temple  Bar,  drank  a  glass  of  stout 
and  home  to  bed  after  reading  a  few  chapters  in  Tristram 
Shandy,  which  I  have  never  yet  read.  This  morning  break 
fasted  at  10  at  the  Hotel  De  Sabloneue  (very  nice  cheap  little 
snuggery  being  closed  on  Sundays).  Had  a  sweet  omelette 
which  was  delicious.  Thence  walked  to  St.  Thomas's  Church, 
Charter  House,  to  hear  my  famed  namesake  (almost)  'The 
Reverend  H.  Melvill.'  I  had  seen  him  placarded  as  to  de 
liver  a  charity  sermon.  The  church  was  crowded — the  ser 
mon  admirable  (granting  the  Rev.  gentleman's  premises). 
Indeed  he  deserves  his  reputation.  I  do  not  think  that  I  hardly 
ever  heard  so  good  a  discourse  before — that  is  for  an  'ortho 
dox'  divine.  It  is  now  3  P.  M.  I  have  had  a  fire  made  and 
am  smoking  a  cigar.  Would  that  one  I  knew  were  here. 
Would  that  the  Little  One  too  were  here, — I  am  in  a  very 
painful  state  of  uncertainty.  I  am  all  eagerness  to  get  home — 
I  ought  to  be  home.  My  absence  occasions  uneasiness  in  a 


ACROSS  LTHE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN     301 

quarter  where  I  most  beseech  heaven  to  grant  repose.  Yet 
here  I  have  before  me  an  open  prospect  to  get  some  curious 
ideas  of  a  style  of  life  which  in  all  probability  I  shall  never 
have  again.  I  should  much  like  to  know  what  the  highest 
English  aristocracy  really  and  practically  is.  And  the  Duke 
of  Rutland's  cordial  invitation  to  visit  him  at  the  castle  fur 
nishes  me  with  just  the  thing  I  want.  If  I  do  not  go,  I  am 
confident  that  hereafter  I  shall  reprimand  myself  for  neglect 
ing  such  an  opportunity  of  procuring  'material/  And  Allan 
and  others  will  account  me  a  ninny. — I  would  not  debate  the 
matter  a  moment  were  it  not  that  at  least  three  whole  weeks 
must  elapse  ere  I  start  for  Belvoir  Castle — three  weeks !  If 
I  could  but  get  over  them !  And  if  the  two  images  would  only 
down  for  that  space  of  time.  I  must  light  a  second  cigar  and 
resolve  it  over  again.  (l/2  past  6  P.  M.)  My  mind  is  made, 
rather  is  irrevocably  resolved  upon  my  first  determination.  A 
visit  into  Leicester  would  be  very  agreeable — at  least  very  val 
uable,  and  in  one  respect,  to  me — but  the  three  weeks  are  in 
tolerable.  To-morrow  I  shall  go  down  to  London  Dock  and 
book  myself  a  state-room  on  board  the  good  ship  Independence. 
I  have  just  returned  from  a  lonely  dinner  at  the  Adelphi,  where 
I  read  the  Sunday  papers.  An  article  upon  the  'Sunday  School 
Union'  particularly  struck  me.  Would  that  I  could  go  home 
in  a  steamer — but  it  would  take  an  extra  $100  out  of  my 
pocket.  Well,  it's  only  thirty  days — one  month — and  I  can 
weather  it  somehow." 

On  Monday,  Melville  concluded  his  arrangements  with 
Bentley,  who  gave  him  a  note  for  two  hundred  pounds  ster 
ling  at  six  months.  Melville  also  walked  down  to  the  London 
Docks  to  inspect  the  Independence.  "She  looks  small  and 
smells  ancient,"  Melville  writes.  "Only  two  or  three  passengers 
engaged.  I  liked  Captain  Fletcher,  however.  He  enquired 
whether  I  was  a  relative  of  Gansevoort  Melville  and  of  Her 
man  Melville.  I  told  him  I  was.  I  engaged  my  passage  and 
paid  ten  pounds  down.  .  .  .  Thence  home ;  and  out  again,  and 
took  a  letter  for  a  Duke  to  the  post  office  and  a  pair  of  pants 
to  be  altered  to  a  tailor." 

On  Tuesday,  Melville  made  another  of  his  many  pilgrimages 


302  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

to  the  old  book  stores  about  Great  Green  Street  and  Lincoln's 
Inn.  "Looked  over  a  lot  of  ancient  books  of  London.  Bought 
one  (A.  D.  1766)  for  3  and  2  pence.  I  want  to  use  it  in  case 
I  serve  up  the  Revolutionary  narrative  of  the  beggar."  What 
was  the  title  of  this  "ancient  book  of  London"  is  not  known, 
and  hence  it  is  impossible  to  know  what  use  he  put  it  to,  when 
in  Israel  Potter  he  did  finally  "serve  up  the  Revolutionary  nar 
rative  of  the  beggar."  The  same  day  he  "stopped  at  a  silver 
smith's  (corner  of  Craven  St.  &  Strand)  and  bought  a  solid 
spoon  for  the  boy  Malcolm — a  fork,  I  mean.  When  he  ar 
rives  to  years  of  mastication  I  shall  invest  him  with  this  fork 
— as  in  yore  they  did  a  young  knight,  with  his  good  sword. 
Spent  an  hour  or  so  looking  over  White-Jacket  preparatory  to 
sending  it  finally  to  Bentley — who,  tho  he  has  paid  his  money 
has  not  received  his  wares.  At  6  I  dine  with  him." 

The  dinner  with  Bentley  went  off  well.  Melville  "had  a 
very  pleasant  evening  indeed"  and  "began  to  like"  his  publisher 
"very  much."  Melville  reported  that  "He  seems  a  very  fine, 
frank,  off-handed  old  gentleman.  We  sat  down  in  a  fine  old 
room  hung  round  with  paintings  (dark  walls).  A  party  of 
fourteen  or  so.  There  was  a  Mr.  Bell  there — connected  with 
literature  in  some  way  or  other.  At  all  events  an  entertain 
ing  man  and  a  scholar — but  looks  as  if  he  loved  old  Pat.  Also 
Alfred  Henry  Forester  ('Alfred  Crowquill') — the  comic 
man.  He  proved  a  good  fellow — free  and  easy  and  no  damned 
nonsense,  as  there  is  about  so  many  of  these  English.  Mr. 
Bentley  has  one  daughter,  a  fine  woman  of  25  and  married,  and 
four  sons — young  men.  They  were  all  at  table.  Some  time 
after  n,  went  home  with  Crowquill,  who  invites  me  to  go  with 
him  Thursday  and  see  the  Pantomime  rehearsal  at  the  Surrey 
Theatre." 

The  following  evening  Melville  dined  with  Mr.  Cook— 
whom  he  had  despised,  at  first  meeting,  as  Murray's  factotum— 
in  Elm  Court,  Temple,  "and  had  a  glorious  time  till  noon  of 
night.  It  recalled  poor  Lamb's  'Old  Benchers.'  Cunningham 
the  author  of  Murray's  London  Guide  was  there  and  was  very 
friendly.  Mr.  Rainbow  also,  and  a  grandson  Wood  fall,  the 
printer  of  Junius,  and  a  brother-in-law  of  Leslie  the  printer. 


ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC  AGAIN     303 

Leslie  was  prevented  from  coming.  Up  in  the  5th  story  we 
dined."  With  a  typical  departure  from  the  conventional  or 
thography,  Melville  pronounced  the  evening,  "The  Paradise 
of  Batchelors." 

In  Harper's  New  Monthly  Magazine  for  April,  1854,  Mel 
ville  published  a  sketch  entitled  Paradise  of  Bachelors  and 
Tartarus  of  Maids."  In  1854  he  was  living  in  Pittsfield,  Mas 
sachusetts,  in  a  household  of  women  and  young  children — 
three  of  his  sisters,  his  mother,  his  wife,  and  three  of  his  own 
children.  So  surrounded,  he  had  relinquished  none  of  the 
pleasant  memories  of  that  December  evening,  in  1849,  in 
those  high  chambers  near  Temple-Bar.  "It  was  the  very  per 
fection  of  quiet  absorption  of  good  living,  good  drinking, 
good  feeling,  and  good  talk,"  Melville  wrote  in  1854.  "We 
were  a  band  of  brothers.  Comfort— fraternal,  household  com 
fort,  was  the  grand  trait  of  the  affair.  Also,  you  could  plainly 
see  that  these  easy-hearted  men  had  no  wives  or  children  to 
give  an  anxious  thought.  Almost  all  of  them  were  travellers, 
too;  for  bachelors  alone  can  travel  freely,  and  without  any 
twinges  of  their  conscience  touching  desertion  of  the  fireside." 
The  antithesis  of  this,  Melville  pictures  in  the  second  part  of 
his  account — The  Tartarus  of  Maids. 

Yet  just  on  the  eve  of  his  going  to  these  high  festivities  in 
the  Temple,  a  letter  was  left  him — "from  home !"  The  letter 
reported:  "All  well  and  Barney  ("Baby  boy,"  Mrs.  Melville 
has  written  in  annotation  on  the  margin  of  the  journal)  more 
bouncing  than  ever,  thank  heaven."  On  the  following  day, 
Melville  began  and  finished  the  Opium  Eater,  and  pronounced 
it  "a  most  wonderful  book." 

On  December  24,  Melville  was  in  Portsmouth.  On  Christ 
mas  morning  he  jumped  into  a  small  boat  with  the  Captain 
and  a  meagre  company  of  passengers,  and  "pulled  off  for  the 
ship  about  a  mile  and  a  half  distant.  Upon  boarding  her  we 
at  once  set  sail  with  a  fair  wind,  and  in  less  than  24  hours 
passed  the  Land's  End  and  the  Scilly  Isle — and  standing  boldly 
out  on  the  ocean  stretched  away  for  New  York.  I  shall  keep 
no  further  diary.  I  here  close  it,  with  my  departure  from 
England,  and  my  pointing  for  home." 


304  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

On  a  blank  page  at  end  of  his  journal,  he  jotted  some  brief 
"Memoranda  of  things  on  the  voyage."  He  noted  Sir  Thomas 
Browne's  reference  to  cannibals  in  Vulgar  Errors,  and  the 
fact  that  Rousseau,  as  a  school  master  "could  have  killed  his 
scholars  sometimes."  He  observed  that  "a  Dandy  is  a  good 
fellow  to  scout  and  room  with;"  and  copied  out  from  Ben 
Jonson  "Talk  as  much  folly  as  you  please — so  long  as  you  do 
it  without  blushing,  you  may  do  it  with  impunity."  He  item 
ised  in  his  journal,  too,  the  books  obtained  while  abroad :  a 
1692  folio  of  Ben  Jonson;  a  1673  folio  of  Davenant;  a  folio 
of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher;  a  1686  folio  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  and  a  folio  of  Marlowe's  plays.  He  brought  with 
him,  also,  a  Hudibras,  a  Castle  of  Otranto,  a  Vathck,  a 
Corinne,  besides  the  confessions  of  Rousseau  and  of  DeQuin- 
cey,  and  the  autobiography  of  Goethe.  The  other  books  were 
guides,  old  maps,  and  other  material  for  Israel  Potter. 

Melville  arrived  at  103  Fourth  Avenue,  on  February  2, 
1850.  Mrs.  Melville,  in  her  journal,  thus  summarises  her 
husband's  trip.  "Summer  of  1849  we  remained  in  New  York. 
He  wrote  Redburn  and  White-Jacket.  Same  fall  went  to  Eng 
land  and  published  the  above.  Stayed  eleven  weeks.  Took 
little  satisfaction  in  it  from  mere  homesickness,  and  hurried 
home,  leaving  attractive  invitations  to  visit  distinguished  people 
— one  from  the  Duke  of  Rutland  to  pass  a  week  at  Belvoir 
Castle — see  his  journal." 

Of  his  life  after  his  return  home,  she  says:  "We  went  to 
Pittsfield  and  boarded  in  the  summer  of  1850.  Moved  to 
Arrowhead  in  fall — October,  1850." 

On  September  27,  1850,  Bayard  Taylor  dispatched  from  the 
Tribune  Office,  New  York,  a  note  to  Mary  Angew.  "Scarcely 
a  day  passes,"  Taylor  wrote,  "but  some  pleasant  recognition  is 
given  me.  I  was  invited  last  Friday  to  dine  with  Bancroft 
and  Cooper ;  on  Saturday  with  Sir  Edward  Belcher  and  Her 
man  Melville.  These  things  seem  like  mockeries,  sent  to  in 
crease  the  bitterness  of  my  heart"  It  is  not  unlikely  that  Mel 
ville  and  Taylor  fed  and  drank  and  smoked  together  on  that 
Saturday  evening,  and  that  they  parted,  each  envying  the  other 
as  a  happy  and  successful  man. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A    NEIGHBOUR    OF    HAWTHORNE'S 

"And  here  again,  not  unreasonably,  might  invocation  go  up  to  those 
three  Weird  Ones,  that  tend  Life's  loom.  Again  we  might  ask  them, 
what  threads  are  these,  oh,  ye  Weird  Ones,  that  ye  wove  in  the  years 
foregone?" 

— HERMAN  MELVILLE:  Pierre. 

AT  the  time  when  Melville  moved  into  the  Berkshire  Hills, 
the  region  around  Lenox  boasted  the  descriptive  title  :  "a  jungle 
of  literary  lions" — a  title  amiably  ferocious  in  its  provincial 
vanity.  In  this  region,  it  is  true,  Jonathan  Edwards  had  writ 
ten  his  treatises  on  predestination,  and  with  sardonic  opti 
mism  had  gloated  over  the  beauties  of  hell;  here  Catherine 
Sedgewick  wrote  her  amiable  insipidities;  here  Elihu  Burritt, 
"the  learned  Blacksmith"  wrote  out  his  Sparks;  here  Bryant 
composed;  here  Henry  Ward  Beecher  indited  many  Star- 
Papers;  here  Headley  and  Holmes,  Lowell  and  Longfellow, 
Curtis  and  G.  P.  R.  James,  Audubon  and  Whipple,  Mrs. 
Sigourney  and  Martineau,  Fanny  Kemble  and  Frederick 
Bremer  and  the  Goodale  sisters  either  visited  or  lived.  Im 
pressed  by  this  array  of  names — an  array  deceptively  impres 
sive  to  the  New  England  imagination, — local  pride  has  not 
blushed  to  explain:  "By  the  river  Arno,  in  the  'lake  region'  of 
Cumberland  and  Westmoreland,  or  on  the  placid  river  which 
flows  through  the  Concord  meadows,  what  congestion  of  lit 
erary  associations!  Like  the  instinct  of  the  bee  which,  sep 
arated  by  great  distances  from  the  hive,  possesses  the  infal 
lible  sense  of  direction  for  its  return,  so,  too,  the  lovely  'nooks 
and  corners'  on  the  earth's  surface  are  irresistibly  and  un 
erringly  attracting  choice  spirits,  which  some  way  are  sure  to 
find  them  out  and  pre-empt  them  in  the  interests  of  their  craft 
or  clan.  Berkshire  is  no  exception  to  this." 

When,  in  1850,  both  Melville  and  Hawthorne  moved  into 
the  Berkshires,  these  literary  wilds  were  tamely  domesticated. 

305 


806  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

and  sadly  thinned  of  prowling  genius.  The  coming  of  Mel 
ville  and  Hawthorne,  however,  marked  the  most  important  ad 
vent  ever  made  into  these  regions.  For  there  Melville  wrote 
Moby-Dick;  and  there  Melville  and  Hawthorne  were  to  be 
thrown  into  an  ironical  intimacy. 

In  the  autumn  of  1850,  Melville  bought  a  spacious  gambrel- 
roofed  farmhouse  at  Pittsfield,  situated  along  Holmes  Road 
and  not  far  from  Broadhall,  formerly  the  home  of  his  uncle, 
and  familiar  to  Melville's  youth.  Melville  named  the  place 
Arrowhead.  To  Arrowhead  he  brought  his  retinue  of  female 
relatives,  and  set  about  to  alternate  farming  with  literature. 

In  the  first  of  the  Piazza  Tales  ( 1856) ,  in  /  and  My  Chimney 
(Putnam's  Magazine,  March,  1856),  and  in  The  Rose-wood 
Table  (Putnam's  Magazine,  May,  1856),  Melville  has  left 
descriptions  of  Arrowhead,  its  inmates,  and  the  surrounding 
country. 

"When  I  removed  into  the  country,"  Melville  says  in  the 
Piazza  Tales,  ''it  was  to  occupy  an  old-fashioned  farmhouse 
which  had  no  piazza — a  deficiency  the  more  regretted  because 
not  only  did  I  like  piazzas,  as  somehow  combining  the  cosi 
ness  of  indoors  with  the  freedom  of  outdoors,  and  it  is  so 
pleasant  to  inspect  your  thermometer  there,  but  the  country 
round  about  was  such  a  picture,  that  in  berry  time  no  boy 
climbs  hill  or  crosses  vale  without  coming  upon  easels  planted 
in  every  nook,  and  sunburned  painters  painting  there.  A  very 
paradise  of  painters.  The  circle  of  the  stars  cut  by  the  circle 
of  the  mountains.  At  least,  so  it  looks  from  the  house ;  though 
once  upon  the  mountains,  no  circle  of  them  can  you  see.  Had 
the  site  been  chosen  five  rods  off,  this  charmed  circle  would 
not  have  been. 

"The  house  is  old.  Seventy  years  since,  from  the  heart  of 
the  Hearth  Stone  Hill,  they  quarried  the  Kaaba,  or  Holy 
Stone,  to  which,  each  Thanksgiving,  the  social  pilgrims  used  to 
come.  So  long  ago  that  in  digging  for  the  foundation,  the 
workmen  used  both  spade  and  axe  fighting  the  Troglodytes 
of  those  subterranean  parts — sturdy  roots  of  a  sturdy  wood, 
encamped  upon  what  is  now  a  long  landslide  of  sleeping 
meadow,  sloping  away  off  from  my  poppy  bed.  Of  that  knit 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S     307 

wood  but  one  survivor  stands — an  elm,  lonely  through  stead 
fastness. 

"Whoever  built  the  house,  he  builded  better  than  he  knew ; 
or  else  Orion  in  the  zenith  flashed  down  his  Damocles'  sword 
to  him  some  starry  night,  and  said :  'Build  there.'  For  how, 
otherwise,  could  it  have  entered  the  builder's  mind  that,  upon 
the  clearing  being  made,  such  a  purple  prospect  would  be  his  ? 
Nothing  less  than  Greylock,  with  all  his  hills  about  him,  like 
Charlemagne  among  his  peers. 

"A  piazza  must  be  had. 

"The  house  was  wide — my  fortune  narrow  .  .  .  upon  but 
one  of  the  four  sides  would  prudence  grant  me  what  I  wanted. 
Now  which  side?  Charlemagne,  he  carried  it. 

"No  sooner  was  ground  broken  than  all  the  neighbourhood, 
neighbour  Dives  in  particular,  broke  too — into  a  laugh.  Piazza 
to  the  north!  Winter  piazza!  Wants,  of  winter  midnights, 
to  watch  the  Aurora  Borealis,  I  suppose;  hope  he's  laid  in  a 
good  store  of  polar  muffs  and  mittens. 

"That  was  in  the  lion  month  of  March.  Not  forgotten  are 
some  of  the  blue  noses  of  the  carpenters  and  how  they  scouted 
at  the  greenness  of  the  cit,  who  would  build  his  sole  piazza  to 
the  north.  But  March  don't  last  forever;  patience,  and 
August  comes.  And  then,  in  the  cool  elysium  of  my  northern 
bower,  I,  Lazarus  in  Abraham's  bosom,  cast  down  the  hill  a 
pitying  glance  on  poor  old  Dives,  tormented  in  the  purgatory 
of  his  piazza,  to  the  south. 

"But,  even  in  December,  this  northern  piazza  does  not  repel 
—nipping  cold  and  gusty  though  it  be,  and  the  north  wind, 
like  any  miller,  bolting  by  the  snow  in  finest  flour — for  then, 
once  more,  with  frosted  beard,  I  pace  the  sleety  deck,  weather 
ing  Cape  Horn. 

"In  summer,  too,  Canute-like,  sitting  here,  one  is  often  re 
minded  of  the  sea.  For  not  only  do  long  ground-swells  roll 
the  slanting  grain,  and  little  wavelets  of  the  grass  ripple  over 
upon  the  low  piazza,  as  their  beach,  and  the  blown  down  of 
dandelions  is  wafted  like  the  spray,  and  the  purple  of  the 
mountains  is  just  the  purple  of  the  billows,  and  a  still  August 
noon  broods  over  the  deep  meadows,  as  a  calm  upon  the  Line ; 


308  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

but  the  vastness  and  the  lonesomeness  are  so  oceanic,  and  the 
silence  and  the  sameness,  too,  that  the  first  peep  of  a  strange 
house,  rising  beyond  the  trees,  is  for  all  the  world  like  spying, 
on  the  Barbary  coast,  an  unknown  sail." 

In  /  and  My  Chimney  Melville  makes  the  old  chimney  at 
Arrowhead  the  chief  character  in  a  sketch  of  his  domestic 
life  at  Pittsfield:  himself  and  his  wife,  both  freely  idealised, 
are  the  other  actors.  This  chimney,  twelve  feet  square  at  the 
base,  was  built  by  Capt.  David  Bush  \vho  erected  the  house  in 
1780.  It  has  three  fireplaces  on  the  first  floor  and  the  one 
formerly  used  for  the  kitchen  fireplace  is  large  enough  for  a 
log  four  feet  long.  This  fireplace  is  panelled  in  pine,  and 
above  it  hangs  an  Indian  tomahawk,  found  and  hung  there 
by  Melville.  Around  it  are  many  nooks  and  cupboards.  In 
/  and  My  Chimney  Melville  wrote:  "And  here  I  keep  mys 
terious  cordials  of  a  choice,  mysterious  flavour,  made  so  by 
the  constant  naturing  and  subtle  ripening  of  the  chimney's 
gentle  heat,  distilled  through  that  warm  mass  of  masonry. 
Better  for  wines  it  is  than  voyages  to  the  Indies ;  my  chimney 
itself  is  a  tropic.  A  chair  by  my  chimney  in  a  November  day 
is  as  good  for  an  invalid  as  a  long  season  spent  in  Cuba. 
Often  I  think  how  grapes  might  ripen  against  my  chimney. 
How  my  wife's  geraniums  bud  there !  But  in  December.  Her 
eggs  too — can't  keep  them  near  the  chimney  on  account  of 
hatching.  Ah,  a  warm  heart  has  my  chimney." 

Col.  Richard  Lathers,  in  his  reminiscences  of  his  Pittsfield 
residence,  writes :  "One  of  my  nearest  neighbours  at  Pittsfield 
was  Herman  Melville,  author  of  the  interesting  and  very  orig 
inal  sea  tales,  Typee  and  Omoo  (which  were  among  the  first 
books  to  be  published  simultaneously  in  London  and  New 
York),  and  of  various  other  volumes  of  prose  and  verse.  I 
visited  him  often  in  his  well-stocked  library,  where  I  listened 
with  intense  pleasure  to  his  highly  individual  views  of  society 
and  politics.  He  always  provided  a  bountiful  supply  of  good 
cider — the  product  of  his  own  orchard — and  of  tobacco,  in 
the  virtues  of  which  he  was  a  firm  believer.  Indeed,  he  prided 
himself  on  the  inscription  painted  over  his  capacious  fire 
place  :  'I  and  my  chimney  smoke  together/  an  inscription  I  have 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    309 

seen  strikingly  verified  more  than  once  when  the  atmosphere 
was  heavy  and  the  wind  was  east." 

When  Melville  set  up  his  family  at  Arrowhead,  Hawthorne 
had  already  been  settled  at  Lenox,  some  miles  away,  for  a 
number  of  months.  "I  have  taken  a  house  in  Lenox" — so  he 
announced  his  removal — "I  long  to  get  into  the  country,  for 
my  health  is  not  what  it  has  been.  An  hour  or  two  in  a 
garden  and  a  daily  ramble  in  country  air  would  keep  me  all 
right." 

Though  Melville  and  Hawthorne  were  at  this  time  neither 
in  very  affluent  circumstances,  Hawthorne  was,  to  all  out 
ward  appearances,  the  more  straitened  of  the  two.  He  de 
scribed  his  new  home  as  "the  very  ugliest  little  bit  of  an  old 
red  farmhouse  you  ever  saw,"  "the  most  inconvenient  and 
wretched  house  I  ever  put  my  head  in."  His  wife,  however, 
was  not  so  precipitous  in  her  damnation,  and  writing  to  her 
mother  on  June  23,  1850,  said :  "We  are  so  beautifully  ar 
ranged  (excepting  the  guest-chamber),  and  we  seem  to  have 
such  a  large  house  inside,  though  outside  the  little  reddest 
thing  looks  like  the  smallest  of  ten-feet  houses.  Enter  our 
old  black  tumble-down  gate, — no  matter  for  that, — and  you 
behold  a  nice  yard,  with  an  oval  grass-plot  and  a  gravel 
walk  all  round  the  borders,  a  flower-bed,  some  rose-bushes, 
a  raspberry-bush,  and  I  believe  a  syringa,  and  also  a  few  tiger- 
lilies;  quite  a  fine  bunch  of  peonies,  a  stately  double  rose- 
columbine,  and  one  beautiful  Balsam  Fir  tree,  of  perfect 
pyramidal  form,  and  full  of  a  thousand  melodies.  The  front 
door  is  wide  open.  Enter  and  welcome."  Mrs.  Hawthorne 
then  elaborates  upon  the  wealth  of  beauty  she  finds  in  her 
tactful  disposition  of  the  pictures,  the  furniture,  and  flowers, 
in  the  cramped  interior.  In  this  tabernacle  she  enshrined 
her  two  small  children ;  and  in  the  "immortal  endowments" 
of  her  husband,  she  was  inarticulate  in  felicity.  "I  cannot  pos 
sibly  conceive  of  my  happiness,"  she  wrote,  "but,  in  a  blissful 
kind  of  confusion,  live  on.  If  I  can  only  be  so  great,  so.  high, 
so  noble,  so  sweet,  as  he  in  any  phase  of  my  being,  I  shall  be 
glad.  I  am  not  deluded  nor  mistaken,  as  the  angels  know  now, 
and  as  all  my  friends  well  know,  in  open  vision !" 


(310  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Of  the  actual  daily  events  at  Arrowhead  and  the  Red  House 
there  is  a  great  inequality  in  the  wealth  of  records.  Of  the 
Red  House  we  know  much ;  of  Arrowhead  we  know  only  too 
little.  Though  Mrs.  Hawthorne  was  always  childlike  in  her 
modesty  and  simplicity,  "her  learning  and  her  accomplish 
ments  were  rare  and  varied."  She  not  only  read  Latin,  Greek 
and  Hebrew,  but  she  kept  an  invaluable  journal  of  the  mo 
mentous  trifles  of  her  husband's  life;  and  she  wrote  letters 
home  that  her  Mother  very  properly  preserved  for  posterity. 
Mrs.  Melville  positively  knew  no  Hebrew ;  and  what  accounts 
of  her  husband  she  wrote  have  all  disappeared.  Only  one  letter 
of  hers  of  this  period  survives: 

"ARROWHEAD,  Aug.  3,  1851. 
"Mv  DEAR  MOTHER  : 

"I  have  been  trying  to  write  to  you  ever  since  Sam  came, 
but  could  not  well  find  a  chance.  As  it  proved,  I  was  not 
mistaken  in  supposing  the  little  parcel  he  brought  was  a  pres 
ent  from  you,  though  I  had  no  letter.  The  contents  were 
beautiful  and  very  acceptable.  Do  accept  my  best  thanks  for 
them.  We  were  delighted  to  see  Sam  Savage  on  Tuesday, 
but  as  he  did  not  notify  us  of  the  day  we  were  not  in  waiting 
for  him  at  the  depot.  However,  he  found  his  way  out  to  us. 
To-day  he  and  Sam  have  gone  over  to  Lebanon  to  see  the 
Shakers.  The  girls  were  much  pleased  with  the  collars,  and 
Mother  M.  with  her  remembrance.  The  scarf  you  sent  me 
was  very  handsome,  but  I  am  almost  sorry  you  did  not  keep 
it  for  yourself,  for  it  does  not  seem  to  me  as  if  I  should  ever 
wear  it — and  certainly  not  this  summer  as  I  go  nowhere  not 
even  to  church.  It  will  look  very  handsome  with  my  new 
shawl,  if  ever  I  do  wear  it,  though. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid  of  the  boys  staying  too  long — I 
am  only  sorry  that  they  cannot  stay  longer,  but  they  think 
or  rather  Sam  Savage  thinks  he  must  go  to  Red  Hook  this 
week.  You  know  we  do  not  make  any  difference  for  them 
and  let  them  do  just  as  they  please  and  take  care  of  them 
selves.  Yesterday  they  went  with  Herman  and  explored  a 
neighbouring  mountain. 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    311 

"Oh,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear,  and  I  meant  to  have  written 
it  to  father  the  other  day,  that  in  consideration  of  the  recent 
decisions  with  regard  to  the  copyright  question,  Mr.  Bentley 
is  to  give  Herman  £150  and  half  profits  after,  for  his  new 
book — a  much  smaller  sum  than  before,  to  be  sure,  but  cer 
tainly  worth  waiting  for — and  quite  generous  on  Mr.  Bent- 
ley's  part  considering  the  unsettled  state  of  things. 

"I  cannot  write  any  more — it  makes  me  terribly  nervous — 
I  don't  know  as  you  can  read  this  I  have  scribbled  it  so." 

At  the  time  of  Melville's  moving  to  Arrowhead  he  was 
writing  Moby-Dick.  In  the  brief  life  of  Melville  in  her  jour 
nal,  Mrs.  Melville  says :  "Wrote  White-Whale  or  Moby-Dick 
under  unfavourable  circumstances — would  sit  at  his  desk  all 
day  not  writing  anything  till  four  or  five  o'clock — then  ride 
to  the  village  after  dark — would  be  up  early  and  out  walking 
before  breakfast — sometimes  splitting  wood  for  evercise. 
Published  White-Whale  in  1851 — wrote  Pierre,  published 
1852.  We  all  felt  anxious  about  the  strain  on  his  health  in 
the  spring  of  1853." 

When  Hawthorne  moved  to  Lenox  he  was  forty-six  years  \ 
old — Melville's  senior  by  fifteen  years.  "Bidding  good-bye 
for  ever  to  literary  obscurity  and  to  Salem,"  Mr.  Julian  Haw 
thorne  says  in  his  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  and  His  Wife,  "Haw 
thorne  now  turned  his  face  towards  the  mountains.  The  pre 
ceding  nine  months  had  told  upon  his  health  and  spirits :  and, 
had  The  Scarlet  Letter  not  achieved  so  fair  a  success,  he  might 
have  been  long  in  recovering  his  normal  frame  of  mind.  But 
the  broad  murmur  of  popular  applause,  coming  to  his  unac 
customed  ears  from  all  parts  of  his  native  country,  and  rolling 
in  across  the  sea  from  academic  England,  gave  him  the 
spiritual  refreshment  born  of  the  assurance  that  our  fellow- 
creatures  think  well  of  the  work  we  haw  striven  to  rnakq 
goocu  Such  assurance  is  essential,  sooner  or  later,  to  sound 
ness  and  serenity  of  mind.  No  man  can  attain  secure  repose 
and  happiness  who  has  never  found  that  what  moves  and  inter 
ests  him  has  power  over  others  likewise.  Sooner  or  later  he 
will  begin  to  doubt  either  his  own  sanity  or  that  of  all  the  rest 


312  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

of  the  world."     Melville  was  never  to  know  any  such  repose 
and  happiness.  ^\ 

Within  the  sanctities  of  the  Red  House,  and  among  the  soli 
tudes  of  the  surrounding  country,  Hawthorne  enjoyed  all  the 
companionship  he  desired.  In  1842,  Mrs.  Hawthorne  had 
written  to  her  mother :  "Mr.  Hawthorne's  abomination  of  visit 
ing  still  holds  strong,  be  it  to  see  no  matter  what  angel;'*  and 
m  1850,  Hawthorne_was_  no  more  eager  for  alliances  even 
with  celestials.  Not,  indeed,  that  he  was  indifferent  to  his 
fellowmen :  that,  his  literary  vocation  would  not  permit.  In 
Sights  from  a  Steeple  he  states :  "The  most  desirable  mode  of 
existence  might  be  that  of  a  spiritualised  Paul  Pry,  hovering 
invisible  round  men  and  women,  witnessing  their  deeds,  search 
ing  into  their  hearts,  borrowing  brightness  from  their  felicity, 
and  shade  from  their  sorrow,  and  retaining  no  emotion  pecu 
liar  to  himself."  Hawthorne's  son  writes  :  "Now  Hawthorne, 
both  by  nature  and  by  training,  was  of  a  disposition  to  throw 
himself  imaginatively  into  the  shoes  (as  the  phrase  is)  of 
whatever  person  happened  to  his  companion.  For  the  time 
being,  he  would  seem  to  take  their  point  of  view  and  to 
speak  their  language ;  it  was  the  result  partly  of  a  subtle  sym 
pathy  and  partly  of  a  cold  intellectual  insight,  which  led  him 
half  consciously  to  reflect  what  he  so  clearly  perceived.  Thus, 
if  he  chatted  with  a  group  of  rude  sea-captains  in  the  smoking- 
room  of  Mrs.  Blodgett's  boarding-house,  or  joined  a  knot  of 
boon  companions  in  a  Boston  bar-room,  or  talked  metaphysics 
with  Herman  Melville  on  the  hills  of  Berkshire,  he  would  aim 
to  appear  in  each  instance  a  man  like  as  they  were;  he  would 
have  the  air  of  being  interested  in  their  interests  and  viewing 
life  by  their  standards.  Of  course,  this  was  only  apparent; 
the  real  man  stood  aloof  and  observant."  "Seeing  his  con- 
geni aTaspect''! :6 war d s  tHerr Tittle  round  of  habits  and  beliefs, 
they  would  leap  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  no  more  and 
no  less  than  one  of  themselves;  whereas  they  formed  but  a 
tiny  arc  in  the  great  circle  of  his  comprehension."  Yet  even 
when  not  in  the  role  of  unimpassioned  spectator,  Hawthorne 
was  not  the  man  to  sit  in  pharisaical  judgment  upon  his  fel 
lows.  In  Fancy's  Show-Box  he  wrote:  "Man  must  not  dis- 


ARROWHEAD 


THE   FIREPLACE 
ARROWHEAD 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    313 

claim  his  brotherhood,  even  with  the  guiltiest,  since,  though  his 
hand  be  clean,  his  heart  has  surely  been  polluted  by  the  flit 
ting  phantoms  of  iniquity."  Emerson  once  said  that  there 
was  no  crime  he  could  not  commit :  an  amiable  vanity  he 
shared  with  many  a  more  prosaic  fellow.  Hawthorne  studied 
his  owiLpj^Jieart  and  learned  that  "men  often  over-estimate 
tHelr  capacity  for  evil."  "I  usedhto  think,"  he  wrote,  "that  I 
couIcTimagirie  air  feelings,  all  passions,  and  states  of  the  heart 
and  mind."  Again :  "Living  in  solitude  till  the  fulness  of  time 
was  come,  I  still  kept  the  dew  of  my  youth  and  the  freshness  of 
my  heart.  Had  I  sooner  made  my  escape  into  the  world, 
I  should  have  grown  hard  and  rough,  and  been  covered  with 
earthly  dust,  and  my  heart  might  have  become  callous  by  rude 
encounters  with  the  multitude."  G.  P.  Lathrop,  in  his  Study 
of  Hawthorne,  says :  "The  visible  pageant  is  only  of  value  to 
him  as  it  suggests  the  viewless  host  of  heavenly  shapes  that 
hang  above  it  like  an  idealising  mirage."  Yet  never  for  a 
second  did  he  lose  himself  among  these  heavenly  visitations. 
He  was  eminently  a  man  of  sound  sense :  as  W.  C.  Brownell 
has  pointed  out,  he  was  "distinctly  the  most  hard-headed  of 
our  men  of  genius."  His  son  said  of  him :  "He  was  the  slave 
of  no  theory  and  no  emotion;  he  always  knew,  so  to  speak, 
where  he  was  and  what  he  was  about."  His  nature  clearly 
was  self-sustaining.  He  never  felt  the  need  of  the  support 
that  in  the  realm  of  the  affections  is  the  reward  of  self- 
surrender.  "He  had  no  doubt  an  ideal  family  life,"  W.  C. 
Brownell  points  out — "that  is  to  say,  ideal  in  a  peculiar  way, 
for  he  had  it  on  rather  peculiar  terms,  one  suspects.  These 
were,  in  brief,  his  own  terms.  He  was  worshipped,  idolised, 
canonised,  and  on  his  side  it  probably  required  small  effort 
worthily  to  fill  the  role  a  more  ardent  nature  would  have 
either  merited  less  or  found  more  irksome.  He  responded 
at  any  rate  with  absolute  devotion.  His  domestic  periphery 
bounded  his  vital  interests." 

J.  E.  A.  Smith,  however,  who  knew  Hawthorne  in  the  flesh, 
undertakes  to  portray  Hawthorne  in  less  austere  outline.  In 
his  book  Taghconic:  The  Romance  and  Beauty  of  the  Hills 
(Boston,  1879)  J.  E.  A.  Smith,  writing  under  the  pseu- 


314.  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

donym  "Godfrey  Greylock,"  says:  "But  that  Mr.  Haw 
thorne's  heart  was  warm  and  tender,  I  am  well  assured  by 
more  than  one  circumstance,  which  I  do  not  know  that  I  am 
at  liberty  to  recall  here.  But  there  can  be  no  wrong  in  men 
tioning  the  origin,  as  I  have  heard  it,  of  the  brotherly  friend-^ 
ship  between  him  and  Herman  Melville.  As  the  story  was  told 
me,  Mr.  Hawthorne  was  aware  that  Melville  was  the  author  of 
a  very  appreciative  review  of  the  Scarlet  Letter  which  ap 
peared  in  the  Literary  World,  edited  by  their  common  friends, 
the  Duyckincks;  but  this  very  knowledge,  perhaps,  kept  two 
very  sensitive  men  shy  of  each  other,  although  thrown  into 
company.  But  one  day  it  chanced  that  when  they  were  out 
on  a  picnic  excursion,  the  two  were  compelled  by  a  thunder- 
shower  to  take  shelter  in  a  narrow  recess  of  the  rocks  of  Monu 
ment  Mountain.  Two  hours  of  enforced  intercourse  settled 
the  matter.  They  learned  so  much  of  each  other's  character, 
and  found  that  they  held  so  much  of  thought,  feeling  and 
opinion  in  common,  that  the  most  intimate  friendship  for  the^ 
future  was  inevitable." 

Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  reports  that  Herman  Melville — or 
Omoo,  as  they  called  him, — soon  became  familiar  and  welcome 
^at  the  Red  House.  In  a  letter  dated  September  4,  1850,  Mrs. 
Hawthorne  reported  to  her  mother :  "To-day,  Mr.  Hawthorne 
and  Mr.  Melville  have  gone  to  dine  at  Pittsfield."  It  is  in  this 
letter  that  Mrs.  Hawthorne  wrote  the  characterisation  of  Mel 
ville  quoted  in  Chapter  I. 

Hawthorne  finished  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  on 
January  27/1851.  The  four  months  following  Hawthorne 
gave  over  to  a  vacation.  "He  had  recovered  his  health/'  his 
son  says,  "he  had  done  his  work,  he  was  famous,  and  the 
region  in  which  he  dwelt  was  beautiful  and  inspiriting.  At 
all  events,  he  made  those  spring  days  memorable  to  his  chil 
dren.  He  made  them  boats  to  sail  on  the  lake,  and  kites  to 
fly  in  the  air ;  he  took  them  fishing  and  flower-gathering,  and 
tried  (unsuccessfully  for  the  present)  to  teach  them  swim 
ming.  Mr.  Melville  used  to  ride  or  drive  up,  in  the  evenings, 
;with  his  great  dog,  and  the  children  used  to  ride  on  the  dog's 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    315 

back."  .  .  .  "It  was  with  Herman  Melville  that  Hawthorne 
held  the  most  familiar  intercourse  at  this  time,  both  person 
ally  and  by  letter."  Hawthorne's  son  quotes  "characteristic 
disquisitions"  by  Melville;  "but  Hawthorne's  answers,  if  he 
wrote  any,"  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  goes  on  to  say,  entertain 
ing  a  philosophical  doubt  in  the  face  of  Melville's  specific  men 
tion  of  letters  from  Hawthorne,  "were  unfortunately  de 
stroyed  by  fire." 

What  would  appear  to  be  the  earliest  of  the  surviving  let 
ters  of  Melville  to  Hawthorne  follows : 

"PITTSFIELD,  Wednesday  morning. 
"Mv  DEAR  HAWTHORNE, — 

"Concerning  the  young  gentleman's  shoes,  I  desire  to  say 
that  a  pair  to  fit  him,  of  the  desired  pattern,  cannot  be  had 
in  all  Pittsfield, — a  fact  which  sadly  impairs  that  metropolitan 
pride  I  formerly  took  in  the  capital  of  Berkshire.  Hence 
forth  Pittsfield  must  hide  its  head.  However,  if  a  pair  of 
bootees  will  at  all  answer,  Pittsfield  will  be  very  happy  to 
provide  them.  Pray  mention  all  this  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  and 
command  me. 

"  'The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables:  A  Romance.  By  Na 
thaniel  Hawthorne.  One  vol.  i6mo,  pp.  344.'  The  con 
tents  of  this  book  do  not  belie  its  rich,  clustering,  romantic 
title.  With  great  enjoyment  we  spent  almost  an  hour  in  each 
separate  gable.  This  book  is  like  a  fine  old  chamber,  abun 
dantly,  but  still  judiciously,  furnished  with  precisely  that  sort 
of  furniture  best  fitted  to  furnish  it.  There  are  rich  hang 
ings,  wherein  are  braided  scenes  from  tragedies !  There  is 
old  china  with  rare  devices,  set  out  on  the  carved  buffet;  there 
are  long  and  indolent  lounges  to  throw  yourself  upon;  there 
is  an  admirable  sideboard,  plentifully  stored  with  good  viands; 
there  is  a  smell  as  of  old  wine  in  the  pantry;  and  finally,  in  one 
corner,  there  is  a  dark  little  black-letter  volume  in  golden 
clasps,  entitled  Hawthorne:  A  Problem.  It  has  delighted  us; 
it  has  piqued  a  re-perusal ;  it  has  robbed  us  of  a  day,  and  made 
us  a  present  of  a  whole  year  of  thoughtfulness;  it  has  bred 
great  exhilaration  and  exultation  with  the  remembrance  that 


316  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

the  architect  of  the  Gables  resides  only  six  miles  off,  and  not 
three  thousand  miles  away,  in  England,  say.  We  think  the 
book,  for  pleasantness  of  running  interest,  surpasses  the  other 
works  of  the  author.  The  curtains  are  more  drawn;  the  sun 
comes  in  more;  genialities  peep  out  more.  Were  we  to  par 
ticularise  what  most  struck  us  in  the  deeper  passages,  we 
would  point  out  the  scene  where  Clifford,  for  a  moment,  would 
fain  throw  himself  forth  from  the  window  to  join  the  pro 
cession  ;  or  the  scene  where  the  judge  is  left  seated  in  his  ances 
tral  chair.  Clifford  is  full  of  an  awful  truth  throughout. 
He  is  conceived  in  the  finest,  truest  spirit.  He  is  no  caricature. 
He  is  Clifford.  And  here  we  would  say  that,  did  circum 
stances  permit,  we  should  like  nothing  better  than  to  devote 
an  elaborate  and  careful  paper  to  the  full  consideration  and 
analysis  of  the  purport  and  significance  of  what  so  strongly 
characterises  all  of  this  author's  writings.  There  is  a  cer 
tain  tragic  phase  of  humanity  which,  in  our  opinion,  was  never 
more  powerfully  embodied  than  by  Hawthorne.  We  mean  the 
tragedies  of  human  thought  in  its  own  unbiassed,  native,  and 
'  profounder  workings.  We  think  that  into  no  recorded  mind 
has  the  intense  feeling  of  the  usable  truth  ever  entered  more 
deeply  than  into  this  man's.  By  usable  truth,  we  mean  the 
apprehension  of  the  absolute  condition  of  present  things  as  they 
strike  the  eye  of  the  man  who  fears  them  not,  though  they 
do  their  worst  to  him, — the  man  who,  like  Russia  or  the  Brit 
ish  Empire,  declares  himself  a  sovereign  nature  (in  himself) 
amid  the  powers  of  heaven,  hell,  and  earth.  He  may  perish; 
but  so  long  as  he  exists  he  insists  upon  treating  with  all  Powers 
upon  an  equal  basis.  If  any  of  those  other  Powers  choose 
to  withhold  certain  secrets,  let  them ;  that  does  not  impair  my 
sovereignty  in  myself;  that  does  not  make  me  tributary.  And 
perhaps,  after  all,  there  is  no  secret.  We  incline  to  think 
that  the  Problem  of  the  Universe  is  like  the  Freemason's 
mighty  secret,  so  terrible  to  all  children.  It  turns  out,  at  last, 
to  consist  in  a  triangle,  a  mallet,  and  an  apron, — nothing  more ! 
We  incline  to  think  that  God  cannot  explain  His  own  secrets, 
and  that  He  would  like  a  little  information  upon  certain  points 
Himself.  We  mortals-  astonish  Him  as  much  as  He  us.  But 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    317 

it  is  this  Being  of  the  matter;  there  lies  the  knot  with  which 
we  choke  ourselves.  As  soon  as  you  say  Me,  a  God,  a  Nature, 
so  soon  you  jump  off  from  your  stool  and  hang  from  the  beam. 
Yes,  that  word  is  the  hangman.  Take  God  out  of  the  dic 
tionary,  and  you  would  have  Him  in  the  street. 

"There  is  the  grand  truth  about  Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  He 
says  NO!  in  thunder;  but  the  Devil  himself  cannot  make  him 
say  yes.  For  all  men  who  say  yes,  lie;  and  all  men  who  say 
no, — why,  they  are  in  the  happy  condition  of  judicious,  unin- 
cumbered  travellers  in  Europe;  they  cross  the  frontiers  into 
Eternity  with  nothing  but  a  carpet-bag, — that  is  to  say,  the 
Ego.  Whereas  those  3^-gentry,  they  travel  with  heaps  of 
baggage,  and,  damn  them!  they  will  never  get  through  the 
Custom  House.  What's  the  reason,  Mr.  Hawthorne,  that  in 
the  last  stages  of  metaphysics  a  fellow  always  falls  to  swearing 
so  ?  I  could  rip  an  hour.  You  see,  I  began  with  a  little  criti 
cism  extracted  for  your  benefit  from  the  Pittsfield  Secret  Re 
view,  and  here  I  have  landed  in  Africa. 

"Walk  down  one  of  these  mornings  and  see  me.  No  non 
sense;  come.  Remember  me  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne  and  the 
children. 

"H.  MELVILLE. 

"P.  S.  The  marriage  of  Phcebe  with  the  daguerreotypist  is 
a  fine  stroke,  because  of  his  turning  out  to  be  a  Maide.  If 
you  pass  Hepzibah's  cent-shop,  buy  me  a  Jim  Crow  (fresh) 
and  send  it  to  me  by  Ned  Higgins." 

When,  at  the  end  of  this  letter,  Melville  found  himself  in 
Africa,  he  mistook  gravely  if  he  imagined  he  occupied  the 
same  continent  with  Hawthorne.  Emile  Montegut,  it  is  true, 
has  described  Hawthorne  as  a  "romancier  pessimiste."  Pessi 
mist  Hawthorne  doubtless  was, — a  pessimist  being  precisely  a 
nature  without  illusions.  Hawthorne  of  course  had,  as 
Brownell  has  sufficiently  taken  pains  to  show,  "the  good  sense, 
the  lack  of  enthusiasm,  the  disillusioned  pessimism  of  the  man 
of  the  world.'*  Hawthorne  did  say  "No!"  to  life:  but  never 
as  Melville  deceived  himself  into  believing,  "in  thunder."  Such 
an  emphatic  denial  would  have  been  an  expression  of  ardour: 


318  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

and  Hawthorne  was  as  without  ardour  as  he  was  without  illu 
sion.     Both  Melville  and  Hawthorne  were,  in  a  sense,  pessi 
mists.     Both  were  repelled  by  reality;  both  were  quite  out  of 
sympathy  with  their  time  and  its  tendencies.     But  they  had 
arrived  at  this  centre  of  meeting  from  opposite  points  of  the 
compass.     Hawthorne  was  a  pessimist  from  lack  of  illusions; 
the  ardour  of  illusion,  because  of  its  exuberance  in  Melville, 
was  at  the  basis  of  Melville's  despair.     Hawthorne  took  the 
same  severely  fatalistic  view  of  himself  and  the  life  about 
him,  as  he  did  of  life  in  his  books.     He  accepted  the  universe 
as  being  unalterable,  and  towards  his  own  destiny  he   felt 
satisfaction  without  elation.     Like  the   Mohammedans  who 
believe  that  they  are  preordained — but  preordained  to   con 
quer, — so  Hawthorne  in  his  Calvinism,  despite  his  depressed 
moods,  had  no  serious  doubts  as  to  his  election.     Melville's  / 
endless  questioning  of  "Providence  and  futurity,  and  of  every-  1 
thing  else  that  lies  beyond  human  ken"  were  to  Hawthorne  \ 
merely  a  weariness  of  the  flesh :  he  was  satisfied  in  his  fatalism,   \ 
and  without  interest  in  speculation. 

The  next  two  letters  announce  that  Moby -Dick  is  going 
through  the  press, — but  they  contain  other  incidental  matter 
that  must  have  been  interesting — as  a  "human  document"  at 
least — even  to  Hawthorne.  It  is  true  that  at  this  time,  so  his 
own  son  says,  "Hawthorne  became  a  sort  of  Mecca  of  pil 
grims  with  Christian's  burden  upon  their  backs.  Secret  crimi 
nals  of  all  kinds  came  to  him  for  counsel  and  relief."  He  was 
weary,  perhaps,  of  human  documents :  and  Melville  came  to 
him,  not  for  counsel,  but  in  the  intimate  fraternity  of  the 
disenchanted. 

"PITTSFIELD,  June  29,  1851. 
"My  DEAR  HAWTHORNE, — 

'^The  clear  air  and  open  window  invite  me  to  write  to  you. 
For  some  time  past  I  have  been  so  busy  with  a  thousand 
things  that  I  have  almost  forgotten  when  I  wrote  you  last, 
and  whether  I  received  an  answer.  This  most  persuasive  sea 
son  has  now  for  weeks  recalled  me  from  certain  crotchety  and 
over-doleful  chimeras,  the  like  of  which  men  like  you  and  me-, 


'A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    319 

and  some  others,  forming  a  chain  of  God's  posts  round  the 
world,  must  be  content  to  encounter  now  and  then,  and  fight 
them  the  best  way  we  can.  But  come  they  will, — for  in  the 
boundless,  trackless,  but  still  glorious  wild  wilderness  through 
which  these  outposts  run,  the  Indians  do  sorely  abound,  as 
well  as  the  insignificant  but  still  stinging  mosquitoes.  Since 
you  have  been  here,  I  have  been  building  some  shanties  of 
houses  (connected  with  the  old  one)  and  likewise  some  shan 
ties  of  chapters  and  essays.  I  have  been  ploughing  and  sow 
ing  and  raising  and  printing  and  praying,  and  now  begin  to 
come  out  upon  a  less  bristling  time,  and  to  enjoy  the  calm 
prospect  of  things  from  a  fair  piazza,  at  the  north  of  the  old 
farmhouse  here. 

"Not  entirely  yet,  though,  am  I  without  something  to  be 
urgent  with.  The  Whale  is  only  half  through  the  press;  for, 
wearied  with  the  long  delays  of  the  printers,  and  disgusted  with 
the  heat  and  dust  of  the  Babylonish  brick-kiln  of  New  York, 
I  came  back  to  the  country  to  feel  the  grass,  and  end  the  book 
reclining  on  it,  if  I  may.  I  am  sure  you  will  pardon  this  speak 
ing  all  about  myself;  for  if  I  say  so  much  on  that  head,  be 
sure  all  the  rest  of  the  world  are  thinking  about  themselves 
ten  times  as  much.  Let  us  speak,  though  we  show  all  our 
faults  and  weaknesses, — for  it  is  a  sign  of  strength  to  be  weak, 
to  know  it,  and  out  with  it;  not  in  set  way  and  ostentatiously, 
though,  but  incidentally  and  without  premeditation.  But  I  am 
falling  into  my  old  foible, — preaching.  I  am  busy,  but  shall 
not  be  very  long.  Come  and  spend  a  day  here,  if  you  can"\ 
and  want  to;  if  not,  stay  in  Lenox,  and  God  give  you  long  life.  / 
When  I  am  quite  free  of  my  present  engagements,  I  am  going 
to  treat  myself  to  a  ride  and  a  visit  to  you.  Have  ready  a 
bottle  of  brandy,  because  I  always  feel  like  drinking  that  heroic 
drink  when  we  talk  ontological  heroics  together.  This  is  rather 
a  crazy  letter  in  some  respects,  I  apprehend.  If  so,  ascribe  it 
to  the  intoxicating  effects  of  the  latter  end  of  June  operating 
upon  a  very  susceptible  and  peradventure  feeble  temperament. 
Shall  I  send  you  a  fin  of  the  Whale  by  way  of  a  specimen 
mouthful?  The  tail  is  not  yet  cooked,  though  the  hell-fire 
in  which  the  whole  book  is  broiled  might  not  unreasonably  have 


320  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

cooked  it  ere  this.    This  is  the  book's  motto  (the  secret  one), 
Ego  non  baptiso  te  in  nomine — but  make  out  the  rest  yourself. 

"H.  M." 

"Mv  DEAR  HAWTHORNE, — 

"I  should  have  been  rumbling  down  to  you  in  my  pine- 
board  chariot  a  long  time  ago,  were  it  not  that  for  some  weeks 
past  I  have  been  more  busy  than  you  can  well  imagine, — out 
of  doors, — building  and  patching  and  tinkering  away  in  all 
directions.  Besides,  I  had  my  crops  to  get  in, — corn  and  po 
tatoes  (I  hope  to  show  you  some  famous  ones  by  and  by), — 
and  many  other  things  to  attend  to,  all  accumulating  upon  this 
one  particular  season.  I  work  myself;  and  at  night  my  bodily 
sensations  are  akin  to  those  I  have  so  often  felt  before,  when  a 
hired  man,  doing  my  day's  work  from  sun  to  sun.  But  I 
mean  to  continue  visiting  you  until  you  tell  me  that  my  visits 
are  both  supererogatory  and  superfluous.  With  no  son  of 
man  do  I  stand  upon  any  etiquette  or  ceremony,  except  the 
Christian  ones  of  charity  and  honesty.  I  am  told,  my  fellow- 
man,  that  there  is  an  aristocracy  of  the  brain.  Some  men 
have  boldly  advocated  and  asserted  it.  Schiller  seems  to  have 
done  so,  though  I  don't  know  much  about  him.  At  any  rate, 
it  is  true  that  there  have  been  those  who,  while  earnest  in 
behalf  of  political  equality,  still  accept  the  intellectual  estates. 
And  I  can  well  perceive,  I  think,  how  a  man  of  superior  mind 
can,  by  its  intense  cultivation,  bring  himself,  as  it  were,  into 
a  certain  spontaneous  aristocracy  of  feeling, — exceedingly  nice 
and  fastidious, — similar  to  that  which,  in  an  English  Howard, 
conveys  a  torpedo-fish  thrill  at  the  slightest  contact  with  a 
social  plebeian.  So,  when  you  see  or  hear  of  my  ruthless  de 
mocracy  on  all  sides,  you  may  possibly  feel  a  touch  of  a  shrink, 
or  something  of  that  sort.  It  is  but  nature  to  be  shy  of  a  ., 
mortal  who  boldly  declares  thaTa  thief  in  jail  is  as  honourable  A 
a  personage  as  Gen.  George  Washington.  This  is  ludicrous. 
But  Truth  is  the  silliest  thing  under  the  sun.  Try  to  get  a  liv 
ing  by  Truth — and  go  to  the  Soup  Societies.  Heavens !  Let 
any  clergyman  try  to  preach  the  Truth  from  its  very  strong 
hold,  the  pulpit,  and  they  would  ride  him  out  of  his  church 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    321 

on  his  own  pulpit  bannister.  It  can  hardly  be  doubted  that  all 
Reformers  are  bottomed  upon  the  truth,  more  or  less;  and  to 
the  world  at  large  are  not  reformers  almost  universally  laugh 
ing-stocks?  Why  so?  Truth  is  ridiculous  to  men.  Thus 
easily  in  my  room  here  do  I,  conceited  and  garrulous,  revere 
the  test  of  my  Lord  Shaftesbury. 

"It  seems  an  inconsistency  to  assert  unconditional  democracy 
in  all  things,  and  yet  confess  a  dislike  to  all  mankind — in 
the  mass.  But  not  so. — But  it's  an  endless  sermon, — no  more 
of  it.  I  began  by  saying  that  the  reason  I  have  not  been  to 
Lenox  is  this, — in  the  evening  I  feel  completely  done  up,  as 
the  phrase  is,  and  incapable  of  the  long  jolting  to  get  to  your 
house  and  back.  In  a  week  or  so,  I  go  to  New  York,  to  bury 
myself  in  a  third-story  room,  and  work  and  slave  on  my 
Whale  while  it  is  driving  through  the  press.  That  is  the  only 
way  I  can  finish  it  now, — I  am  so  pulled  hither  and  thither  by 
circumstances.  The  calm,  the  coolness,  the  silent  grass-growing 
mood  in  which  a  man  ought  always  to  compose, — that,  I  fear, 
can  seldom  be  mine.  Dollars  damn  me;  and  the  malicious 
Devil  is  for  ever  grinning  in  upon  me,  holding  the  door  ajar. 
My  dear  Sir,  a  presentiment  is  on  me, — I  shall  at  last  be  worn 
out  and  perish,  like  an  old  nutmeg-grater,  grated  to  pieces  by 
the  constant  attrition  of  the  wood,  that  is,  the  nutmeg.  What 
I  feel  most  moved  to  write,  that  is  banned, — it  will  not  pay. 
Yet,  altogether,  write  the  other  way  I  cannot.  So  the  product 
is  a  final  hash,  and  all  my  books  are  botches.  I'm  rather  sore, 
perhaps,  in  this  letter ;  but  see  my  hand ! — four  blisters  on  this 
palm,  made  by  hoes  and  hammers  within  the  last  few  days. 
It  is  a  rainy  morning ;  so  I  am  indoors,  and  all  work  suspended. 
I  feel  cheerfully  disposed,  and  therefore  I  write  a  little  bluely. 
Would  the  Gin  were  here !  If  ever,  my  dear  Hawthorne,  in 
the  eternal  times  that  are  to  come,  you  and  I  shall  sit  down 
in  Paradise,  in  some  little  shacly  corner  by  ourselves;  and 
if  we  shall  by  any  means  be  able  to  smuggle  a  basket  of  cham 
pagne  there  (I  won't  believe  in  a  Temperance  Heaven),  and 
if  we  shall  then  cross  our  celestial  legs  in  the  celestial  grass 
that  is  forever  tropical,  and  strike  our  glasses  and  our  heads 
together,  till  both  musically  ring  in  concert, — then,  O  my  dear 


322  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

fellow-mortal,  how  shall  we  pleasantly  discourse  of  all  the 
things  manifold  which  now  so  distress  us, — when  all  the  earth 
shall  be  but  a  reminiscence,  yea,  its  final  dissolution  an 
antiquity.  Then  shall  songs  be  composed  as  when  wars  are 
over ;  humorous,  comic  songs, — 'Oh,  when  I  lived  in  that  queer 
little  hole  called  the  world/  or,  'Oh,  when  I  toiled  and  sweated 
below/  or,  'Oh,  when  I  knocked  and  was  knocked  in  the 
fight' — yes,  let  us  look  forward  to  such  things.  Let  us  swear 
that,  though  now  we  sweat,  yet  it  is  because  of  the  dry  heat 
which  is  indispensable  to  the  nourishment  of  the  vine  which 
is  to  bear  the  grapes  that  are  to  give  us  the  champagne  here 
after. 

"But  I  was  talking  about  the  Whale.  As  the  fishermen  say, 
'he's  in  his  flurry'  when  I  left  him  some  three  weeks  ago.  I'm 
going  to  take  him  by  his  jaw,  however,  before  long,  and  finish 
him  up  in  some  fashion  or  other.  What's  the  use  of  elabo 
rating  what,  in  its  very  essence,  is  so  short-lived  as  a  modern 
book?  Though  I  wrote  the  Gospels  in  this  century,  I  should 
die  in  the  gutter. — I  talk  all  about  myself,  and  this  is  selfish 
ness  and  egotism.  Granted.  But  how  help  it  ?  I^am  writing 
to  you;  I  know  little  about  you,  but  something  about  myself. 
So  I  write  about  myself, — at  least,  to  you.  Don't  trouble 
yourself,  though,  about  writing;  and  don't  trouble  yourself 
about  visiting;  and  when  you  do  visit,  don't  trouble  yourself 
about  talking.  I  will  do  all  the  writing  and  visiting  and  talk 
ing  myself. — By  the  way,  in  the  last  Dollar  Magazine  I  read 
'The  Unpardonable  Sin.'  He  was  a  sad  fellow,  that  Ethan 
Brand.  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  by  this  time  responsible  for 
many  a  shake  and  tremour  of  the  tribe  of  'general  readers/ 
It  is  a  frightful  poetical  creed  that  the  cultivation  of  the  brain 
eats  out  the  heart.  But  it's  my  prose  opinion  that  in  most 
cases,  in  those  men  who  have  fine  brains  and  work  them  well, 
the  heart  extends  down  to  hams.  And  though  you  smoke 
them  with  the  fire  of  tribulation,  yet,  like  veritable  hams,  the 
head  only  gives  the  richer  and  the  better  flavour.  I  stand 
for  the  heart.  To  the  dogs  with  the  head!  I  had  rather  be 
a  fool  with  a  heart,  than  Jupiter  Olympus  with  his  head. 
The  reason  the  mass  of  men  fear  God,  and  at  bottom  dislike 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    323 

Him,  is  because  they  rather  distrust  His  heart,  and  fancy  Him 
all  brain  like  a  watch.  (You  perceive  I  employ  a  capital 
initial  in  the  pronoun  referring  to  the  Deity;  don't  you  think 
there  is  a  slight  dash  of  flunkeyism  in  that  usage?)  Another 
thing.  I  was  in  New  York  for  four-and-twenty  hours  the 
other  day,  and  saw  a  portrait  of  N.  H.  And  I  have  seen  and 
heard  many  flattering  (in  a  publisher's  point  of  view)  allusions 
to  the  Seven  Gables.  And  I  have  seen  Tales  and  A  New 
Volume  announced,  by  N.  H.  So  upon  the  whole,  I  say  to 
myself,  this  N.  H.  is  in  the  ascendant.  My  dear  Sir,  they 
begin  to  patronise.  All  Fame  is  patronage.  Let  me  be  in 
famous:  there  is  no  patronage  in  that.  What  'reputation' 
H.JVLJias  is  horrible.  Think  of  it!  To  go  down  to  pos 
terity  is  FacTeri6ugrr,-any  way ;  but  to  go  down  as  a  'man  who 
lived  among  the  cannibals'!  When  I  speak  of  posterity,  in 
reference  to  myself,  I  only  mean  the  babies  who  will  probably 
be  born  in  the  moment  immediately  ensuing  upon  my  giving 
up  the  ghost.  I  shall  go  down  to  some  of  them,  in  all  like 
lihood.  Typee  will  be  given  to  them,  perhaps,  with  their  gin 
gerbread.  I  have  come  to  regard  this  matter  of  Fame  as  the 
most  transparent  of  all  vanities.  I  read  Solomon  more  and 
more,  and  every  time  see  deeper  and  deeper  and  unspeakable 
meanings  in  him.  I  did  not  think  of  Fame,  a  year  ago,  as 
I  do  now.  My  development  has  been  all  within  a  few  years 
past.  I  am  like  one  of  those  seeds  taken  out  of  the  Egyptian 
Pyramids,  which,  after  being  three  thousand  years  a  seed  and 
nothing  but  a  seed,  being  planted  in  English  soil,  it  developed 
itself,  grew  to  greenness,  and  then  fell  to  mould.  So  I.  Until 
I  was  twenty-five,  I  had  no  development  at  all.  From  my 
twenty-fifth  year  I  date  my  life.  Three  weeks  have  scarcely 
passed,  at  any  time  between  then  and  now,  that  I  have  not 
unfolded  within  myself.  But  I  feel  that  I  am  now  come  to 
the  inmost  leaf  of  the  bulb,  and  that  shortly  the  flower  must 
fall  to  the  mould.  It  seems  to  me  now  that  Solomon  was 
the  truest  man  who  ever  spoke,  and  yet  that  he  a  little  man 
aged  the  truth  with  a  view  to  popular  conservatism;  or  else 
there  have  been  many  corruptions  and  interpolations  of  the 
text — In  reading  some  of  Goethe's  sayings,  so  worshipped  by 


324  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

his  votaries,  I  came  across  this,  'Live  in  the  all!  That  is  to 
say,  your  separate  identity  is  but  a  wretched  one, — good;  but 
get  out  of  yourself,  spread  and  expand  yourself,  and  bring 
to  yourself  the  tinglings  of  life  that  are  felt  in  the  flowers 
and  the  woods,  that  are  felt  in  the  planets  Saturn  and  Venus, 
and  the  Fixed  Stars.  What  nonsense!  Here  is  a  fellow 
with  a  raging  toothache.  'My  dear  boy/  Goethe  says  to  him, 
y  'you  are  sorely  afflicted  with  that  tooth;  but  you  must  live  in 
*  the  all,  and  then  you  will  be  happy !'  As  with  all  great  genius, 
there  is  an  immense  deal  of  flummery  in  Goethe,  and  in  pro 
portion  to  my  own  contact  with  him,  a  monstrous  deal  of  it 
in  me. 

"H.  MELVILLE. 

"P.  S.     'Amen !'  saith  Hawthorne. 

"N.  B.  This  'all'  feeling,  though,  there  is  some  truth  in. 
You  must  often  have  felt  it,  lying  on  the  grass  on  a  warm 
\  summer's  day.  Your  legs  seem  to  send  out  shoots  into  the 
earth.  Your  hair  feels  like  leaves  upon  your  head.  This  is 
the  all  feeling.  But  what  plays  the  mischief  with  the  truth  is 
that  men  will  insist  upon  the  universal  application  of  a  tempo 
rary  feeling  or  opinion. 

"P.  S.  You  must  not  fail  to  admire  my  discretion  in  pay 
ing  the  postage  on  this  letter." 

When  Melville  speaks  of  "the  calm,  the  coolness,  the  silent 
grass-growing  mood  in  which  a  man  ought  to  compose,"  he 
has  caught  a  demoralisation  from  Hawthorne.  Moby-Dick, 
he  says,  was  "broiled  in  hell-fire" ;  and  the  complete  "posses 
sion"  that  mastered  Hawthorne  during  the  composition  of 
The  Scarlet  Letter  has  been  amply  attested.  Each  man  once, 
and  once  only,  wrestled  with  the  angel  of  his  inspiration  glori 
ously  to  conquer.  But  Hawthorne  had  little  relish  for  such 
athletics :  he  preferred  the  relaxation  of  painstaking  placidity. 
He  said  of  The  Scarlet  Letter  that  "he  did  not  think  it  a  book 
natural  for  him  to  write."  The  pity  of  it  is  that  he  was  not 
more  frequently  so  unnatural.  As  an  old  man,  Melville  looked 
back  upon  his  achievement,  and  recanted  the  corruption  he 
had  learned  from  Hawthorne : 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    325 


ART 

In  placid  hours  well-pleased  we  dream 
Of  many  a  brave  unbodied  scheme. 
But  form  to  lend,  pulsed  life  create, 
What  unlike  things  must  meet  and  mate; 
A  flame  to  melt — a  wind  to  freeze; 
Sad  patience — joyous  energies; 
Humility — yet  pride  and  scorn ; 
Instinct  and  study; — love  and  hate: 
Audacity — reverence.    These  must  mate, 
And  fuse  with  Jacob's  mystic  heart, 
To  wrestle  with  the  angel — art. 

Apropos  of  the  two  letters  last  quoted,  Mr.  Julian  Haw 
thorne  says :  "Mr.  Melville  was  probably  quite  as  entertaining 
and  somewhat  less  abstruse,  when  his  communications  were 
by  word  of  mouth.  Mrs.  Hawthorne  used  to  tell  of  one 
evening  when  he  came  in,  and  presently  began  to  relate  the 
story  of  a  fight  which  he  had  seen  on  an  island  in  the  Pacific, 
between  some  savages,  and  of  the  prodigies  of  valour  one  of 
them  performed  with  a  heavy  club.  The  narrative  was  ex 
tremely  graphic;  and  when  Melville  had  gone,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hawthorne  were  talking  over  his  visit,  the  latter  said, 
'Where  is  that  club  with  which  Mr.  Melville  was  laying  about 
him  so  ?'  Mr.  Hawthorne  thought  he  must  have  taken  it  with 
him ;  Mrs.  Hawthorne  thought  he  had  put  it  in  the  corner ;  but 
it  was  not  to  be  found.  The  next  time  Melville  came,  they 
asked  him  about  it;  whereupon  it  appeared  that  the  club  was 
still  in  the  Pacific  island,  if  it  were  anywhere." 

In  the  entry  in  his  journal  for  July  30,  1851,  Hawthorne 
wrote :  "Proceeding  homeward,  we  were  overtaken  by  a  cava 
lier  on  horseback,  who  saluted  me  in  Spanish,  to  which  I 
replied  by  touching  my  hat.  But,  the  cavalier  renewing  his 
salutation,  I  regarded  him  more  attentively,  and  saw  that  it 
was  Herman  Melville!  So  we  all  went  homeward  together, 
talking  as  we  went.  Soon  Mr.  Melville  alighted,  and  put  Julian 
in  the  saddle;  and  the  little  man  was  highly  pleased,  and  sat 
on  the  horse  with  the  freedom  and  fearlessness  of  an  old 


326  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

equestrian,  and  had  a  ride  of  at  least  a  mile  homeward.  I 
asked  Mrs.  Peters  to  make  some  tea  for  Herman  Melville, 
and  so  she  did;  and  after  supper  I  put  Julian  to  bed,  and 
Melville  and  I  had  a  talk  about  time  and  eternity,  things  of 
this  world  and  of  the  next,  and  books,  and  publishers,  and  all 
possible  and  impossible  matters,  that  lasted  pretty  deep  into 
the  night.  At  last  he  rose,  and  saddled  his  horse  and  rode 
off  to  his  own  domicile,  and  I  went  to  bed.  .  .  ." 

On  August  8,  1851,  Hawthorne  reports  in  his  journal: 
"To-day  Herman  Melville  and  the  two  Duyckincks  came  in  a 
barouche,  and  we  all  went  to  visit  the  Shaker  establishment 
at  Hancock."  Of  the  Shakers,  Hawthorne  wrote:  "They  are 
certainly  the  most  singular  and  bedevilled  set  of  people  that 
ever  existed  in  a  civilised  land."  One  wonders  what  would 
have  been  Hawthorne's  report  of  the  valley  of  Typee. 

The  next  letter  acknowledges  a  lost  communication  from 
Hawthorne.  It  is  dated,  in  Hawthorne's  writing:  "received 
July  24,  1851." 

"Mv  DEAR  HAWTHORNE  :  This  is  not  a  letter,  or  even  a 
note,  but  merely  a  passing  word  to  you  said  over  your  garden 
gate.  I  thank  you  for  your  easy  flowing  long  letter  (received 
yesterday),  which  flowed  through  me,  and  refreshed  all  my 
meadows,  as  the  Housatonic — opposite  me — does  in  reality. 
I  am  now  busy  with  various  things,  not  incessantly  though; 
but  enough  to  require  my  frequent  tinkering;  and  this  is  the 
height  of  the  haying  season,  and  my  nag  is  dragging  home 
his  winter's  dinners  all  the  time.  And  so,  one  way  and  an 
other,  I  am  not  a  disengaged  man,  but  shall  be  very  soon. 
Meanwhile,  the  earliest  good  chance  I  get,  I  shall  roll  down 
to  you,  my  good  fellow,  seeing  we — that  is,  you  and  I —  must 
hit  upon  some  little  bit  of  vagabondage  before  autumn  comes. 
Greylock — we  must  go  and  vagabondise  there.  But  ere  we 
start,  we  must  dig  a  deep  hole,  and  bury  all  Blue  Devils,  there 
to  abide  till  the  last  Day.  .  .  .  Good-bye." 

His  X  MARK. 

And  the  last  letter  is  a  dithyramb  of  gratitude  to  Haw- 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    327 

thorne  for  a  letter  of  Hawthorne's  (would  that  it  survived!)] 
in  appreciation  of  Moby-Dick. 

"PITTSFIELD,  Monday  Afternoon. 
"My  DEAR  HAWTHORNE: 

"People  think  that  if  a  man  has  undergone  any  hardship 
he  should  have  a  reward;  but  for  my  part,  I  have  done  the 
hardest  possible  day's  work,  and  then  come  to  sit  down  in  a 
corner  and  eat  my  supper  comfortably — why,  then  I  don't 
think  I  deserve  any  reward  for  my  hard  day's  work — for  am 
I  not  at  peace?  Is  not  my  supper  good?  My  peace  and  my 
supper  are  my  rewards,  my  dear  Hawthorne.  So  your  joy- 
giving  and  exultation-breeding  letter  is  not  my  reward  for  my 
ditcher's  work  with  that  book,  but  is  the  good  goddess's  bonus 
over  and  above  what  was  stipulated  for — for  not  one  man  in 
five  cycles,  who  is  wise,  will  expect  appreciative  recognition 
from  his  fellows,  or  any  one  of  them.  Appreciation !  Recog 
nition!  Is  love  appreciated?  Why,  ever  since  Adam,  who 
has  got  to  the  meaning  of  this  great  allegory — the  world? 
Then  we  pigmies  must  be  content  to  have  our  paper  allegories 
but  ill  comprehended.  I  say  your  appreciation  is  my  glorious 
gratuity.  In  my  proud,  humble  way, — a  shepherd-king, — I 
was  lord  of  a  little  vale  in  the  solitary  Crimea;  but  you  have 
now  given  me  the  crown  of  India.  But  on  trying  it  on 
my  head,  I  found  it  fell  down  on  my  ears,  notwithstanding 
their  asinine  length — for  it's  only  such  ears  that  sustain  such 
crowns. 

"Your  letter  was  handed  to  me  last  night  on  the  road  going 
to  Mr.  Morewood's,  and  I  read  it  there.  Had  I  been  at  home, 
I  would  have  sat  down  at  once  and  answered  it.  In  me  divine 
magnanimities  are  spontaneous  and  instantaneous — catch  them 
while  you  can.  The  world  goes  round,  and  the  other  side 
comes  up.  So  now  I  can't  write  what  I  felt.  But  I  felt 
pantheistic  then — your  heart  beat  in  my  ribs  and  mine  in 
yours,  and  both  in  God's.  A  sense  of  unspeakable  security  i 
in  me  this  moment,  on  account  of  your  having  understood  the 
book.  I  have  written  a  wicked  book,  and  feel  spotless  as 
the  lambT~  Ineffable  socialities  are  in  me.  I  would  sit  down 


328  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

and  dine  with  you  and  all  the  Gods  in  old  Rome's  Pantheon. 
It  is  a  strange  feeling — no  hopelessness  is  in  it,  no  despair. 
Content — that  is  it;  and  irresponsibility;  but  without  licentious 
inclination.  I  speak  now  of  my  profoundest  sense  of  being, 
not  of  an  incidental  feeling. 

"Whence  came  you,  Hawthorne?  By  what  right  do  you 
drink  from  my  flagon  of  life?  And  when  I  put  it  to  my 
lips — lo,  they  are  yours  and  not  mine.  I  feel  that  the  God 
head  is  broken  up  like  the  bread  at  the  Supper,  and  that  we 
are  the  pieces.  Hence  this  infinite  fraternity  of  feeling.  Now, 
sympathising  with  the  paper,  my  angel  turns  over  another 
leaf.  You  did  not  care  a  penny  for  the  book.  But,  now 
and  then  as  you  read,  you  understood  the  pervading  thought 
that  impelled  the  book — and  that  you  praised.  Was  it  not  so? 
You  were  archangel  enough  to  praise  the  imperfect  body,  and 
embrace  the  soul.  Once  you  hugged  the  ugly  Socrates  be 
cause  you  saw  the  flame  in  the  mouth,  and  heard  the  rushing 
of  the  demon, — the  familiar, — and  recognised  the  sound;  for 
you  have  heard  it  in  your  own  solitudes. 

"My  dear  Hawthorne,  the  atmospheric  scepticisms  steal  over 
me  now,  and  make  me  doubtful  of  my  sanity  in  writing  you 
thus.  But,  believe  me,  I  am  not  mad,  most  noble  Festus !  But 
truth  is  ever  incoherent,  and  whfin.jthe  -big  hearts  strike  to 
gether,  the  concussion  is  a  little  stunning.  Farewell.  Don't 
write  me  a  word  about  the  book.  That  would  be  robbing  me 
of  my  miserable  delight.  I  am  heartily  sorry  I  ever  wrote 
anything  about  you — it  was  paltry.  Lord,  when  shall  we  be 
done  growing?  As  long  as  we  have  anything  more  to  do, 
we  have  done  nothing.  So,  now,  let  us  add  Moby-Dick  to  our 
blessing,  and  step  from  that.  Leviathan  is  not  the  biggest 
fish; — I  have  heard  of  Krakens. 

"This  is  a  long  letter,  but  you  are  not  at  all  bound  to  answer 
it.  Possibly  if  you  do  answer  it,  and  direct  it  to  Herman 
Melville,  you  will  missend  it — for  the  very  fingers  that  now 
guide  this  pen  are  not  precisely  the  same  that  just  took  it  up  and 
put  it  to  the  paper.  Lord,  when  shall  we  be  done  changing? 
Ah !  it  is  a  long  stage,  and  no  inn  in  sight,  and  night  coming, 
and  the  body  cold.  But  with  you  for  a  passenger,  I  am  con- 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S     329 

tent  and  can  be  happy.  I  shall  leave  the  world,  I  feel,  with 
more  satisfaction  for  having  come  to  know  you.  Knowing 
you  persuades  me  more  than  the  Bible  of  our  immortality. 

"What  a  pity  that,  for  your  plain,  bluff  letter,  you  should 
get  such  gibberish!  Mention  me  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne  and  to 
the  children,  and  so,  good-bye  to  you,  with  my  blessing. 

"HERMAN. 

"P.  S.  I  can't  stop  yet.  If  the  world  was  entirely  made  up 
of  Magians,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  should  do.  I  should  have 
a  paper-mill  established  at  one  end  of  the  house,  and  so  have 
an  extra  riband  for  foolscap  rolling  in  upon  my  desk;  and 
upon  that  endless  riband  I  should  write  a  thousand — a  mil 
lion — a  billion  thoughts,  all  under  the  form  of  a  letter  to  you. 
The  divine  magnet  is  on  you,  and  my  magnet  responds.  Which 
is  the  bigger?  A  foolish  question — they  are  one. 

"H. 

"P.  P.  S.  Don't  think  that  by  writing  me  a  letter,  you  shall 
always  be  bored  with  an  immediate  reply  to  it — and  so  keep 
both  of  us  delving  over  a  writing-desk  eternally.  No  such 
thing!  I  sha'n't  always  answer  your  letters  and  you  may 
do  just  as  you  please." 

Hawthorne  had  written  Melville  a  "plain,  bluff  letter,"  and 
in  reply  was  to  be  told,  with  "infinite  fraternity,"  that  "the 
god-head  is  broken  up  like  the  bread  at  the  Supper"  and  that^ 
he  was  one  of  the  pieces.  Melville  had  dedicated  Moby-Dick 
to  Hawthorne,  and  Hawthorne  made  some  sort  of  acknowl 
edgment  of  the  tribute.  Melville,  shrewdly  suspected  him, 
however,  of  caring  "not  a  penny"  for  the  book,  but  in  arch- 
angelical  charity  praising  less  the  "imperfect  body"  than  the 
"pervading  thought"  which  "now  and  then"  he  understood. 

Moby-Dick  was  an  allegory,  of  course — but  withal  an  alle 
gory  of  a  solidity  and  substance  that  must  have  appeared  to 
Hawthorne  little  short  of  grossly  shocking.  Hawthorne  had 
been  praised  from  his  "airy  and  charming  insubstantiality." 
And  of  himself  he  wrote,  with  engaging  candour:  "Whether 
from  lack  of  power,  or  an  unconquerable  reserve,  the  Author's 
touches  have  often  an  effect  of  tameness."  Hawthorne's  "re- 


330  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

serve"  is,  of  course,  all  myth.  Both  Hawthorne  and  Mel 
ville,  though  each  a  recluse  in  life,  overflow  to  the  reader. 
And  as  Brownell  says  of  Hawthorne:  "He  does  not  tell  very 
much,  but  apparently  he  tells  everything."  But  to  Hawthorne, 
Melville's  overflowing,  like  a  spring  freshet,  or  a  tidal  wave, 
must  have  been  little  less  than  appalling.  Hawthorne's  was 
eminently  a  neat,  fastidious  style,  as  free  from  any  eccen 
tricity  or  excess  as  from  any  particular  pungency  or  colour. 
Melville's  was  extravagant,  capricious,  vigorous,  and  "un- 
literary" :  the  energy  of  his  undisciplined  genius  is  its  most 
significant  qualty.  After  all,  was  it  possible  for  Hawthorne 
to  feel  any  deep  sympathy  for  Melville's  passionate  enthusi 
asms,  for  Melville's  catholic  toleration,  for  Melville's  quench 
less  curiosity,  for  Melville's  varied  laughter,  for  Melville's 
spiritual  daring?  It  is  true  that  Hawthorne  found  Story's 
''Cleopatra" — inspired,  it  might  appear,  by  a  fancy  of  the 
young  Victoria  in  discreet  negligee — "a  terrible,  dangerous 
woman,  quite  enough  for  the  moment,  but  very  like  to  spring 
upon  you  like  a  tigress."  He  never  visited  George  Eliot  be 
cause  there  was  another  Mrs.  Lewes.  He  was  much  troubled 
by  the  nude  in  art.  He  pronounced  Margaret  Fuller's  "in 
many  respects,"  a  "defective  and  evil  nature,"  and  "Provi 
dence  was  kind  in  putting  her  and  her  clownish  husband 
and  their  child  on  board  that  fated  ship."  It  is  true  that  he 
wrote  a  graceful  if  not  very  genial  introductory  essay — once 
mistaken  for  a  marvel  quite  eclipsing  "Elia" — to  relieve  the 
dark  tone  of  The  Scarlet  Letter.  And  it  is  also  true  that  he 
accepted  the  adoration  of  his  wife  with  the  utmost  gravity 
and  appreciation.  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  in  one  of  her  letters  to 
her  mother,  by  a  transition  in  praise  of  Hawthorne's  eyes— 
"They  give,  but  receive  not" — comments  at  some  length,  on 
her  husband's  "mighty  heart,"  that  "opens  the  bosom  of  men." 
"So  Mr.  Melville,"  she  says,  "generally  silent  and  incommuni 
cative,  pours  out  the  rich  floods  of  his  mind  and  experience 
to  him,  so  sure  of  appreciation,  so  sure  of  a  large  and  generous 
interpretation." 

/        What  interpretation  Hawthorne  gave  to  Moby-Dick  has  not 
transpired.     Hawthorne  mentions  Moby-Dick  once  in  his  pub- 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S    331 

lished  works.  In  the  Wonder  Book  he  says :  "On  the  hither 
side  of  Pittsfield  sits  Herman  Melville,  shaping  out  the  gigantic 
conception  of  his  white  whale,  while  the  gigantic  shape  of 
Greylock  looms  upon  him  from  his  study  window/'  Only  one 
available  Hawthorne-Melville  document  is  still  unprinted  :  the 
"Agatha"  letter,  mentioned  by  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne.  But 
the  "Agatha"  letter  says  nothing  of  Moby-Dick;  and  though 
of  impressive  bulk,  its  biographical  interest  is  too  slight  to 
merit  its  publication. 

Born  in  hell-fire,  and  baptised  in  an  unspeakable  name,  y^ 
Moby-Dick  is,  with  The  Scarlet  Letter,  among  the  few  very 
notable  literary  achievements  of  American  literature.  There 
has  been  published  no  criticism  of  Melville  more  beautiful 
or  more  profound  than  the  essay  of  E.  L.  Grant  Watson  on 
Moby-Dick  (London  Mercury,  December,  1920).  It  is  Mr. 
Watson's  contention  in  this  essay,  that  the  Pequod,  with  her 
monomaniac  captain  and  all  her  crew,  is  representative  of 
Melville's  own  genius,  and  in  the  particular  sense  that  each 
character  is  deliberately  symbolic  of  a  complete  and  separate 
element.  Because  of  the  prodigal  richness  of  material  in 
Moby-Dick,  the  breadth  and  vitality  and  solid  substance  of 
the  setting  of  the  allegory,  the  high  quality  of  Moby-Dick  as 
a  psychological  synthesis  has  very  generally  been  lost  sight  of. 
Like  Bunyan,  or  Swift,  Melville  has  enforced  his  moral  by 
giving  an  independent  and  ideal  verisimilitude  to  its  innocent 
and  unconscious  exponents.  The  self-sustaining  vitality  of 
Melville's  symbols  has  been  magnificently  vouched  for  by  Mr. 
Masefield  in  his  vision  of  the  final  resurrection.  And  the 
superb  irony — whether  unconscious  or  intended — of  Moby- 
Dick's  "towing  the  ship  our  Lord  was  in,  with  all  the  sweet 
apostles  aboard  of  her,"  would  surely  have  delighted  Melville. 
Pilgrim's  Progress  is  undoubtedly  a  tract;  but,  as  Brownell 
observes,  if  it  had  been  only  a  tract,  it  would  never  have 
achieved  universal  canonisation.  Both  Pilgrim's  Progress  and 
Moby-Dick  are  works  of  art  in  themselves,  each  leaning  lightly 
—though  of  course  to  all  the  more  purpose — on  its  moral. 
Most  persons  probably  read  Gulliver  for  the  story,  and  miss 
the  satire.  In  the  same  way,  a  casual  reader  of  Moby-Dick 


332  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

may  skip  the  more  transcendental  passages  and  classify  it 
as  a  book  of  adventure.  It  is  indeed  a  book  of  adventure, 
but  upon  the  highest  plane  of  spiritual  daring.  Ahab  is,  of 
course,  the  atheistical  captain  of  the  tormented  soul;  and  his 
crew,  so  Melville  says,  is  "chiefly  made  of  mongrel  renegades, 
and  cast-aways  and  cannibals."  And  Ahab  is  "morally  en 
feebled,  also,  by  the  incompetence  of  mere  unaided  virtue  or 
rightmindedness  in  Starbuck,  the  invulnerable  jollitry  of  in 
difference  or  recklessness  of  Stubb,  and  the  pervading  medi 
ocrity  of  Flash."  But  Ahab  is  Captain;  and  his  madness  is 
of  such,  a  quality  that  the  white  whale  and  all  that  is  there 
symbolised,  needs  must  render  its  consummation,  or  its  ex 
tinction.  On  the  waste  of  the  Pacific,  ship  after  ship  passes 
the  Pequod,  some  well  laden,  others  bearing  awful  tidings :  yet 
all  are  sane.  The  Pequod  alone,  against  contrary  winds,  sails 
on  into  that  amazing  calm,  that  extraordinary  mildness,  in 
which  she  is  destroyed  by  Moby-Dick.  "There  is  a  wisdom 
that  is  woe,  and  there  is  a  woe  that  is  madness."  And  in 
Moby-Dick,  the  woe  and  the  wisdom  are  mingled  in  the  his 
tory  of  a  soul's  adventure. 

Though  Moby-Dick  is  not  only  an  allegory,  but  an  allegory 
designed  to  teach  woeful  wisdom,  nowhere  in  literature,  per 
haps,  can  one  find  such  uncompromising  despair  so  genially 
and  painlessly  administered.  Indeed,  the  despair  of  Moby- 
Dick  is  as  popularly  missed  as  is  the  vitriolic  bitterness  of 
Gulliver.  There  is  an  abundance  of  humour  in  Moby-Dick, 
of  course:  and  there  is  mirth  in  much  of  the  laughter.  In 
Moby-Dick,  it  would  appear,  Melville  has  made  pessimism  a 
gay  science.  "Learn  to  laugh,  my  young  friends,"  Nietzsche 
counsels,  "if  you  are  at  all  determined  to  remain  pessimists." 
If  there  are  tears,  he  smiles  gallantly  as  he  brushes  them  aside. 
"There  are  certain  queer  times  and  occasions  in  this  strange 
mixed  affair  we  call  life,"  Melville  says,  "when  a  man  takes 
this  whole  universe  for  a  vast  practical  joke,  though  the  wit 
thereof  he  but  dimly  discovers,  and  more  than  suspects  that 
the  joke  is  at  nobody's  expense  but  his  own.  There  is  noth 
ing  like  the  perils  of  whaling  to  breed  this  free  and  easy  sort 
of  genial,  desperado  philosophy;  and  with  it  I  regard  this 


A  NEIGHBOUR  OF  HAWTHORNE'S     333 

whole*  voyage  of  the  PC  quod,  and  the  great  white  whale  its 
object."     And  for  the  most  part,  he  does.     But  he  declares, 
withal,  that  "the  truest  of  all  men  was  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  \    v 
and  the  truest  of  all  books  is  Solomon's,  and  Ecclesiastes  is    \ 
the  fine  hammered  steel  of  woe.    All  is  vanity.    ALL."    Moby-  i — 
Dick  was  built  upon  a  foundation  of  this  wisdom,  and  this  I 
woe ;  and  so  keenly  did  Melville  feel  the  poignancy  of  this  woe,  */ 
so  isolated  was  he  in  his  surrender  to  this  wisdom,  that  this 
wisdom  and  this  woe,  which  he  had  learned  from  Solomon  and 
from  Christ,  he  felt  to  be  of  that  quality  which  in  our  cow 
ardice  we  call  madness. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  GREAT   REFUSAL 

"My  towers  at  last!    These  rovings  end, 
Their  thirst  is  slacked  in  larger  dearth: 
The  yearning  infinite  recoils, 
For  terrible  is  earth." 

— HERMAN  MELVILLE:  L' Envoi. 

ON  a  bleak  and  snowy  November  day  in  1851,  the  Haw 
thorne  family,  with  their  trunks,  got  into  a  large  farm 
wagon  and  drove  away  from  the  little  red  house.  And  with 
the  departure  of  Hawthorne,  Melville  had  dreamed  the  last  of 
his  avengihgTrreanis: --There-may  have  been  some  association 
between  the  two  men  while  Hawthorne  was  in  West 
Newton,  and  later  in  Concord,  but  no  records  survive.  In 
1856,  on  his  way  to  the  Holy  Land,  Melville  visited  Haw 
thorne  at  Southport  two  days  after  arriving  in  Liverpool. 
Melville's  account  of  the  meeting  is  thus  recorded  in  his 
journal: 

"Sunday,  Nov.  9:  Stayed  home  till  dinner.  After  dinner 
took  steamboat  for  Rock  Ferry  to  find  Mr.  Hawthorne.  On 
getting  to  R.  F.  learned  he  had  removed  thence  18  months 
previous  and  was  now  residing  out  of  town. 

"Monday,  Nov.  10:  Went  among  the  docks  to  see  the  Medi 
terranean  steamers.  Saw  Mr.  Hawthorne  at  Consulate.  In 
vited  me  to  stay  with  him  during  my  sojourn  at  Liverpool. 
Dined  at  Anderson's,  a  very  nice  place,  and  charges  moderate. 

"Tuesday,  Nov.  u:  Hawthorne  for  Southport,  20  miles 
distant  on  the  seashore,  a  watering  place.  Found  Mrs.  Haw 
thorne  &  the  rest  awaiting  tea  for  us. 

"Wednesday,  Nov.  12:  At  Southport,  an  agreeable  day. 
Took  a  long  walk  by  the  sea.  Sand  &  grass.  Wild  &  deso 
late.  A  strong  wind.  Good  talk.  In  the  evening  stout  &  fox 
&  geese.  Julian  grown  into  a  fine  lad.  Una  taller  than  her 

334 


THE  GREAT  REFUSAL  335 

brother.  Mrs.  Hawthorne  not  in  good  health.  Mr.  Haw 
thorne  stayed  home  with  me. 

"Thursday,  Nov.  13:  At  Southport  till  noon.  Mr.  H.  &  I 
took  train  then  for  Liverpool.  Spent  rest  of  day  putting  en 
quiries  among  steamers. 

"Friday,  Nov.  14:  Took  bus  for  London  Road.  Called  at 
Mr.  Hawthorne's.  Met  a  Mr.  Bright.  Took  me  to  his  club 
and  luncheoned  me  there. 

"Sunday,  Nov.  16:  Rode  in  the  omnibus.  Went  out  to  Fox- 
hill  Park,  &c.  Grand  organ  at  St.  George's  Hall." 

Three  days  later,  Melville  was  off  for  Constantinople. 
In  his  English  Note-book,  under  November  3Oth,    1856, 
Hawthorne  wrote: 

"November  30:  A  week  ago  last  Monday,  Herman  Melville 
came  to  see  me  at  the  Consulate,  looking  much  as  he  used  to 
do,  and  with  his  characteristic  gravity  and  reserve  of  manner. 
.  .  .  We  soon  found  ourselves  on  pretty  much  our  former 
terms  of  sociability  and  confidence.  .  .  .  He  is  thus  far  on 
his  way  to  Constantinople.  I  do  not  wonder  that  he  found 
it  necessary  to  take  an  airing  through  the  world,  after  so  many 
years  of  toilsome  pen-labour,  following  upon  so  wild  and 
adventurous  a  youth  as  his  was.  I  invited  him  to  come  and 
stay  with  us  at  Southport,  as  long  as  he  might  remain  in 
this  vicinity,  and  accordingly  he  did  come  the  next  day.  .  .  . 
On  Wednesday  we  took  a  pretty  long  walk  together,  and  sat 
down  in  a  hollow  among  the  sand-hills,  sheltering  ourselves 
from  the  high  cool  wind.  Melville,  as  he  always  does,  began 
to  reason  of  Providence  and  futurity,  and  of  everything  else 
that  lies  beyond  human  ken.  .  .  .  He  has  a  very  high  and 
noble  nature,  and  is  better  worth  immortality  than  the  most 
of  us.  ...  On  Saturday  we  went  to  Chester  together.  I 
love  to  take  every  opportunity  of  going  to  Chester;  it  being 
the  one  only  place,  within  easy  reach  of  Liverpool,  which 
possesses  any  old  English  interest.  We  went  to  the  Cathe 
dral." — And  then  architecture  gives  place  to  personal  com 
ment. 


336  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  reports  of  this  meeting :  "At  South- 
port  the  chief  event  of  interest  during  the  winter  was  a  visit 
from  Herman  Melville,  who  turned  up  at  Liverpool  on  his 
way  to  Constantinople,  and  whom  Hawthorne  brought  out  to 
spend  a  night  or  two  with  us.  'He  looked  much  the  same 
as  he  used  to  do;  a  little  paler,  perhaps,  and  a  little  sadder, 
and  with  his  characteristic  gravity  and  reserve  of  manner.  I 
felt  rather  awkward  at  first,  for  this  is  the  first  time  I  have 
met  him  since  my  ineffectual  attempt  to  get  him  a  consular 
appointment  from  General  Pierce.  However,  I  failed  only 
from  real  lack  of  power  to  serve  him;  so  there  wras  no  reason 
to  be  ashamed,  and  we  soon  found  ourselves  on  pretty  much 
the  former  terms  of  sociability  and  confidence.  Melville  has 
not  been  well,  of  late;  he  has  been  affected  with  neuralgic 
complaints,  and  no  doubt  has  suffered  from  too  constant  lit 
erary  occupation,  pursued  without  much  success  latterly;  and 
his  writings,  for  a  long  while  past,  have  indicated  a  morbid 
state  of  mind.  So  he  left  his  place  in  Pittsfield,  and  has  come 
to  the  Old  World.  He  informed  me  that  he  had  "pretty  much 
made  up  his  mind  to  be  annihilated" ;  but  still  he  does  not 
seem  to  rest  in  that  anticipation,  and  I  think  will  never  rest 
until  he  gets  hold  of  some  definite  belief.  It  is  strange  how 
he  persists — and  has  persisted  ever  since  I  knew  him,  and 
probably  long  before — in  wandering  to  and  fro  over  these 
deserts,  as  dismal  and  monotonous  as  the  sandhills  amidst 
which  we  were  sitting.  IJe^can  neither  believe,  nor  be  com 
fortable  in  his  unbelief ;  and  he  is  too  honest  and  courageous 
not  to  try  to  do  one  or  the  other.  If  he  were  a  religious  man, 
he^ would  be  one  of  the  most  truly  religious  and  reverential;  he 
has  a  very  high  and  noble  nature,  and  better  worth  immortality 

n  most  of  us.' 

"Melville  made  the  rounds  of  Liverpool  under  the  guidance 
of  Henry  Bright;  and  afterwards  Hawthorne  took  him  to 
Chester;  and  they  parted  the  same  evening,  'at  a  street  corner, 
in  the  rainy  evening.  I  saw  him  again  on  Monday,  however. 
He  said  that  he  already  felt  much  better  than  in  America; 
but  observed  that  he  did  not  anticipate  much  pleasure  in  his 
rambles,  for  that  the  spirit  of  adventure  is  gone  out  of  him. 


THE  GREAT  REFUSAL  337 

He  certainly  is  much  overshadowed  since  I  saw  him  last;  but 
I  hope  he  will  brighten  as  he  goes  onward.  He  sailed  on 
Tuesday,  leaving  a  trunk  behind  him,  and  taking  only  a  carpet 
bag  to  hold  all  his  travelling-gear.  This  is  the  next  best  thing 
to  going  naked ;  and  as  he  wears  his  beard  and  moustache,  and 
so  needs  no  dressing-case, — nothing  but  a  toothbrush, — I  do 
not  know  a  more  independent  personage.  He  learned  his 
travelling  habits  by  drifting  about,  all  over  the  South  Seas, 
with  no  other  clothes  or  equipage  than  a  red  flannel  shirt  and 
a  pair  of  duck  trousers.  Yet  we  seldom  see  men  of  less  criti- 
cisable  manners  than  he/  ' 

There  is  no  record  of  these  two  men  ever  meeting  again.  .^ 
FronTthe  beginning,  there  had  been,  between  Melville  and  *] 
Hawthorne,  a  profound  incompatibility.  When  they  met,  Mel-  1 
ville  was  within,  one  last  step  of  absolute  disenchantment. 
One  illusion,  only,  was  to  him  still  unblasted:  The  belief 
in  the  possibility  of  a  Utopian  friendship  that  might  solace  all 
of  his  earlier  defeats.  Ravished  in  solitude  by  his  alienation 
from  hs  fellows,  Melville  discovered  that  the  author  of  The 
Scarlet  Letter  was.  his  neighbour.  He  came  to  know  Haw 
thorne  :  and  his  eager  soul  rushed  to  embrace  Hawthorne's  as 
that  of  a  brother  in  despair.  Exultant  was  his  worship  of 
Hawthorne,  absolute  his  desire  for  surrender.  He  craved  of 
Hawthorne  an  understanding  and  sympathy  that  neither  Haw 
thorne,  nor  any  other  human  being,  perhaps,  could  ever  have 
given.  His  admiration  for  Hawthorne  was,  of  course,  as  he 
inevitably  discovered,  built  upon  a  mistaken  identity.  Yet,  on 
the  evidence  of  his  letters,  he  for  a  time  drew  from  this  admi 
ration  moments  both  of  tensest  excitement  and  of  miraculous 
and  impregnating  peace.  It  would  be  interesting,  indeed,  to 
know  what  Moby-Dick  owed  to  this  inspiration.  Itjsj)atent 
fact^howeyer,.  that .JSlth  the  publication  of  Moby-Dick,  "and 
"Hawthorne's  departure  from  Lenox,  Melville's  creative  period 
was  at  its  close.  *At  the  age  of  thirty-two,  so  brilliant,  so  in 
tense,  so  crowded  had  been  the  range  of  experience  that  burned 
through  him,  that  at  the  period  of  his  life  when  most  men  are 
just  beginning  to  strike  their  gait,  Melville  found  himself  look 
ing  forward  into  utter  night.  Nearly  forty  years  before  his 


338  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

death,  he  had  come  to  be  the  most  completely  disenchanted  of 
all  considerable  American  writers. tv 

[From  his  youth,  Melville  had  felt  the  flagrant  and  stub 
born  discord  between  aspiration  and  fact.  He  was  born  with 
an  imagination  of  very  extraordinary  vigour,  and  with  a  con 
stitution  of  corresponding  vitality.  In  sheer  capacity  to  feel, 
most  American  writers  look  pale  beside  him.  Fired  by  his 
rebellious  imagination,  and  abetted  by  his  animal  courage,  he 
sallied  forth  in  quest  of  happiness.  Few  men  have  ever  com 
passed  such  a  span  of  experience  as  he  crowded  within  the 
thirty-two  years  of  his  quest;  few  men  have  lived  with  such 
daring,  with  such  intensity.  And  one  by  one,  as  he  put  his 
illusions  to  the  test,  the  bolts  of  his  imagination,  discharged 
against  reality,  but  blazed  out  charred  avenues  to  despair.  It 
was  Dante,  he  says  in  Pierre,  who  first  "opened  to  his  shud 
dering  eyes  the  infinite  cliffs  and  gulfs  of  human  mystery  and 
misery; — though  still  more  in  the  way  of  experimental  vision, 
than  of  sensational  presentiment  or  experience."  By  the  age 
of  thirty-two,  he  had,  by  first-hand  knowledge  of  life,  learned 
to  feel  the  justice  of  Schopenhauer's  statement :  "Where  did 
Dante  find  the  material  for  his  Inferno  if  not  from  the  world; 
and  yet  is  not  his  picture  exhaustively  satisfactory?  But  look 
at  his  Paradise;  when  he  attempted  to  describe  it  he  had 
nothing  to  guide  him,  this  pleasant  world  could  not  offer  a 
single  suggestion."  This  passage  is  marked  in  Melville's  copy 
of  Schopenhauer.  And  in  Pierre  he  wrote :  "By  vast  pains  we 
mine  into  the  pyramid;  by  horrible  gropings  we  come  to  the 
central  room;  with  joy  we  espy  the  sarcophagus;  but  we  lift 
the  lid — and  nobody  is  there ! — appallingly  vacant,  as  vast  as 
the  soul  of  a  manTj 

Melville's  disiBusionment  began  at  home.  The  romantic 
idealisation  of  his  mother  gave  place  to  a  recoil  into  a  realisa 
tion  of  the  cold,  "scaly,  glittering  folds  of  pride"  that  re 
buffed  his  tormented  love;  and  he  studied  the  portrait  of  his 
father,  and  found  it  a  defaming  image.  In  Pierre  this  por 
trait  thus  addresses  him :  "To  their  young  children,  fathers  are 
not  wont  to  unfold  themselves.  .  .  .  Consider  this  strange, 
ambiguous,  smile ;  more  narrowly  regard  this  mouth.  Behold, 


THE  GREAT  REFUSAL  339 

what  is  this  too  ardent  and,  as  it  were,  unchastened  light  in 
these  eyes.  Consider.  Is  there  no  mystery  here?''  In  Pierre, 
he  thought  that  there  was. 

In  his  boyhood,  poverty  added  its  goad  to  launch  him  forth 
to  find  happiness  in  distance.  He  discovered  hideousness ;  and 
later,  escaped  into  virgin  savagery,  he  saw  by  contrast  the 
blatant  defaults  of  civilisation;  and  he  learned  that  it  was  the 
dubious  honour  of  the  white  civilised  man  of  being  "the  most 
ferocious  animal  on  the  face  of  the  earth."  In  Tahiti  he  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  bigotry  and  stupid  self -righteous 
ness  of  the  proselyting  Protestant  mind ;  and  there  he  learned 
that  Christianity — or  what  passes  for  it — may  under  some  cir 
cumstances  be  not  a  blessing  but  a  blight.  In  Typee  and  Omoo 
he  innocently  turned  his  hand  to  right  matters  to  a  happier 
adjustment,  soon  to  reap  the  reward  of  such  temerity.  In  the 
navy  he  was  made  hideously  aware  of  the  versatility  of  the 
human  animal  in  evil.  There  he  found  not  only  a  rich  pano 
rama  of  human  unloveliness,  but  "evils  which,  like  the  sup 
pressed  domestic  drama  of  Horace  Walpole,  will  neither  bear 
representing,  nor  reading,  and  will  hardly  bear  thinking  of." 
There,  he  was  also  struck  by  the  criminal  stupidity  of  war.  In 
White-Jacket  he  asked,  "are  there  no  Moravians  in  the  Moon, 
that  not  a  missionary  has  yet  visited  this  poor  pagan  planet 
of  ours,  to  civilise  civilisation  and  Christianise  Christendom?" 
He  was,  as  he  calls  himself,  a  "pondering  man" :  and  in  his 
evaluation  of  individual  human  life  he  soon  came  to  share  the 
judgment  of  Josiah  Royce,  another  "pondering  man" :  "Call 
it  human  life.  You  can  not  find  a  comparison  more  thor 
oughly  condemning  it."  And  he  marked  Schopenhauer's  trib 
ute  to  his  fellows :  "They  are  just  what  they  seem  to  be,  and 
that  is  the  worst  that  can  be  said  of  them." 

As  "the  man  who  lived  among  the  cannibals"  he  was  famous 
by  the  age  of  twenty-eight.  But  when  he  attempted  to  put  his 
earnest  convictions  on  paper,  he  was  to  discover  that  the  value 
of  the  paper  deteriorated  thereby.  When  he  made  this  dis 
covery  he  was  married,  and  a  father:  and  debtors  had  to  be 
held  at  bay  by  the  point  of  the  pen.  On  April  30,  1851,  Har 
per  and  Brothers  denied  him  any  further  advance  on  his  royal- 


340  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ties :  they  were  making  "extensive  and  expensive  improve 
ments" — and  besides,  he  had  already  overdrawn  nearly  seven 
hundred  dollars. 

He  had,  too,  sought  personal  happiness  in  the  illusion  of 
romantic  love.  The  romantic  lover  is  in  especial  peril  of 
finding  in  marriage  the  sobered  discovery  that  all  his  sublime 
and  heroic  effort  has  resulted  simply  in  a  vulgar  satisfaction, 
and  that,  taking  all  things  into  consideration,  he  is  no  better 
off  than  he  was  before.  In  his  poem  After  the  Pleasure  Party 
(in  Timoleon,  1891)  Melville  tells  such  a  "sad  rosary  of  be 
littling  pain/'  As  a  rule,  Theseus  once  consoled,  Ariadne  is 
forsaken;  and  had  Petrarch's  passion  been  requited,  his  song 
would  have  ceased.  Francesca  and  Paolo,  romantic  lovers  who 
had  experienced  the  limits  of  their  desire,  were  by  Dante  put 
in  Hell :  and  their  sufficient  punishment  was  their  eternal  com 
panionship.  By  the  very  ardour  of  his  idealisation,  Melville 
was  foredoomed  to  disappointment  in  marriage.  Though  both 
he  and  his  wife  were  noble  natures — indeed  for  that  very  rea 
son — their  marriage  was  for  each  a  crucifixion.  For  between 
them  there  was  deep  personal  loyalty  without  understanding. 
Bacon  once  said,  "he  that  hath  wife  and  children  hath  given 
hostages  to  fortune,  for  they  are  impediments  to  great  en 
terprises,  either  of  virtue  or  of  mischief."  Melville  gave  such 
hostages  to  fortune :  but,  such  was  his  temperament,  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  believe  that  unencumbered  he  would  have  magnified  his 
achievement.  Mrs.  Melville  is  remembered  as  a  gentle,  gra 
cious,  loyal  woman  who  bore  with  him  for  over  forty  years, 
in  his  disillusion,  his  loss  of  health,  his  poverty,  his  obscurity. 
And  his  father-in-law,  Chief  Justice  Shaw,  befriended  him 
with  forbearance  and  with  more  substantial  gifts. 

With  the  departure  of  Hawthorne  from  Lenox,  Melville 
wa&Jefl_without  companionship  and  without  illusions.  And 
he  was  aware  of  the  approach  of  his  Nemesis  even  before 
it  overtook  him.  He  confessed  to  Hawthorne  while  finishing 
Moby-Dick  his  feeling  that  he  was  approaching  the  limit  of 
his  power.  And  these  intimations  were  prophetic.  With 
Moby-Dick  his  creative  period  closed. 

Of  the  end  of  this  period  his  wife  says:  "Wrote  White 


THE  GREAT  REFUSAL  341 

Whale  or  Moby-Dick  under  unfavourable  circumstances — 
would  sit  at  his  desk  all  day  not  writing  anything  till  four  or 
five  o'clock — then  ride  to  the  village  after  dark — would  be  up 
early  and  out  walking  before  breakfast — sometimes  splitting 
wood  for  exercise.  Published  White  Whale  in  1851. — Wrote 
Pierre:  published  1852.  We  all  felt  anxious  about  the  strain 
on  his  health  in  Spring  of  1853." 

•In  Pierre,  Melville  coiled  down  into  the  night  of  his  soul, 
to  "write  an  anatomy  of  despair.  The  purpose  of  the  book  was 
to  show  the  impracticability  of  virtue :  to  give  specific  evidence, 
freely  plagiarised  from  his  own  psychology,  that  "the  heavenly 
wisdom  of  God  is  an  earthly  folly  to  man,"  "that  although  our 
blessed  Saviour  was  full  of  the  wisdom  of  Heaven,  yet  his 
gospel  seems  lacking  in  the  practical  wisdom  of  the  earth; 
that  his  nature  was  not  merely  human — was  not  that  of  a 
mere  man  of  the  world" ;  that  to  try  to  live  in  this  world 
according  to  the  strict  letter  of  Christianity  would  result  in 
"the  story  of  the  Ephesian  matron,  allegorised."  The 
subtlety  of  the  analysis  is  extraordinary;  and  in  its  probings 
into  unsuspected  determinants  from  unconsciousness  it  is 
prophetic  of  some  of  the  most  recent  findings  in  psychology. 
"Deep,  deep,  and  still  deep  and  deeper  must  we  go,"  Melville 
says,  "if  we  would  find  out  the  heart  of  a  man;  descending 
into  which  is  as  descending  a  spiral  stair  in  a  shaft,  without 
any  end,  and  where  that  endlessness  is  only  concealed  by  the 
spiralness  of  the  stair,  and  the  blackness  of  the  shaft."  In 
the  winding  ambiguities  of  Pierre  Melville  attempts  to  reveal 
man's  fatal  facility  at  self-deception;  to  show  that  the  human 
mind  is  like  a  floating  iceberg,  hiding  below  the  surface  of 
the  sea  most  of  its  bulk;  that  from  a  great  depth  of  thought 
and  feeling  below  the  level  of  awareness,  long  silent  hands  are 
ever  reaching  out,  urging  us  to  whims  of  the  blood  and  ten 
sions  of  the  nerves,  whose  origins  we  never  suspect.  "In 
reserves  men  build  imposing  characters,"  Melville  says;  "not 
in  revelations."  Pierre  is  not  conspicuous  for  its  reserves. 

Pierre  aroused  the  reviewers  to  such  a  storm  of  abuse  that 
legend  has  assigned  Melville's  swift  obscuration  to  this  dis 
praise.  The  explanation  is  too  simple,  as  Mr.  Mather  con- 


342  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

tends.  But  there  is,  doubtless,  more  than  a  half  truth  in  this 
explanation.  The  abuse  that  Pierre  reaped,  coming  when  it 
did  in  Melville's  career,  and  inspired  by  a  book  in  which  Mel 
ville  with  tragic  earnestness  attempted  an  apologia  of  worldly 
defeat,  must  have  seemed  to  him  in  its  heartlessness  and  total 
blindness  to  his  purpose,  a  definitive  substantiation  of  the 
thesis  of  his  book. 

Pierre  has  been  very  unsympathetically  handled,  even  by 
Melville's  most  penetrating  and  sympathetic  critics.  Mr. 
Frank  Jewett  Mather,  Jr.,  for  example,  in  the  second  of  his 
two  essays  on  Herman  Melville  (The  Review,  August  9  and 
16,  1919),  says  of  Pierre  that  "it  is  perhaps  the  only  posi 
tively  ill-done  book"  of  Melville's.  Mr.  Mather  grants  power 
to  the  book,  but  he  finds  it  "repellent  and  overwrought."  He 
recommends  it  only  as  a  literary  curiosity.  And  as  a  literary 
curiosity  Mr.  Arthur  Johnson  studied  its  stylistic  convolutions 
in  The  New  Republic  of  August  27,  1919.  It  is  certainly  true, 
as  Mr.  Johnson  has  said,  that  "the  plot  or  theme,  were  it  not 
so  'done'  as  to  be  hardly  decipherable,  would  be  to-day  con 
sidered  rather  'advanced.' '  Mr.  Johnson  contends  that  for 
morbid  unhealthy  pathology,  it  has  not  been  exceeded  even  by 
D.  H.  Lawrence.  All  this  may  be  very  excellent  ethics,  but  it 
is  not  very  enlightening  criticism. 

Melville  wrote  Pierre  with  no  intent  to  reform  the  ways  of 
the  world.  But  he  did  write  Pierre  to  put  on  record  the  re 
minder  that  the  world's  way  is  a  hypocritic  way  in  so  far  as 
it  pretends  to  be  any  other  than  the  Devil's  way  also.  In 
Pierre,  Melville  undertook  to  dramatise  this  conviction.  When 
he  sat  down  to  write,  what  seemed  to  him  the  holiest  part  of 
himself — his  ardent  aspirations — had  wrecked  itself  against 
reality.  So  he  undertook  to  present,  in  the  character  of 
Pierre,  his  own  character  purged  of  dross;  and  in  the  char 
acter  of  Pierre's  parents,  the  essential  outlines  of  his  own 
parents.  Then  he  started  his  hero  forth  upon  a  career  of 
lofty  and  unselfish  impulse,  intent  to  show  that  the  more 
transcendent  a  man's  ideal,  the  more  certain  and  devastating 
his  worldly  defeat;  that  the  most  innocent  in  heart  are  those 
most  in  peril  of  being  eventually  involved  in  "strange,  unique 


THE  GREAT  REFUSAL  343 

follies  and  sins,  unimagined  before."  Incidentally,  Melville 
undertakes  to  show,  in  the  tortuous  ambiguities  of  Pierre,  that 
even  the  purest  impulses  of  Pierre  were,  in  reality,  tainted 
of  clay.  Pierre  is  an  apologia  of  Melville's  own  defeat,  in 
the  sense  that  in  Pierre  Melville  attempts  to  show  that  in  so 
far  as  his  own  defeat — essentially  paralleling  Pierre's — was 
unblackeried  by  incest,  murder,  and  suicide,  he  had  escaped 
these  disasters  through  accident  and  inherent  defect,  rather 
than  because  of  superior  virtue.  Pierre  had  followed  the 
heavenly  way  that  leads  to  damnation. 

Such  a  thesis  can  be  met  by  the  worldly  wisdom  that  Mel 
ville  slanders  in  Pierre,  only  with  uncompromising  repug 
nance.  There  can  be  no  forgiveness  in  this  world  for  a  man 
who  calls  the  wisdom  of  this  world  a  cowardly  lie,  and  probes 
clinically  into  the  damning  imperfections  of  the  best.  His 
Kingdom  is  surely  not  of  this  world.  And  if  this  world 
evinces  for  his  gospel  neither  understanding  nor  sympathy, 
he  cannot  reasonably  complain  if  he  reaps  the  natural  fruits 
of  his  profession.  Melville  agreed  with  the  Psalmist :  "Ver 
ily  there  is  a  reward  for  the  righteous."  But  he  blasphemed 
when  he  dared  teach  that  the  reward  of  virtue  and  truth  in 
this  world  must  be  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth.  Like 
Dante,  Melville  set  himself  up  against  the  world  as  a  party 
of  one.  A  majority  judgment,  though  it  has  the  power, 
has  not  necessarily  the  truth.  It  is  theoretically  possible  that 
Melville,  not  the  world,  is  right.  But  one  can  assent  to  Mel 
ville's  creed  only  on  penalty  of  destruction;  and  the  race  does 
not  welcome  annihilation.  Hence  this  world  must  rejoice  in 
its  vengeance  upon  his  blasphemy :  and  the  self-righteous  have 
washed  their  feet  in  the  blood  of  the  wicked. 

After  Pierre,  any  further  writing  from  Melville  was  both 
an  impertinence  and  an  irrelevancy.  No  man  who  really  be 
lieves  that  all  is  vanity  can  consistently  go  on  taking  elaborate 
pains  to  popularise  his  indifference.  Schopenhauer  did  that 
thing,  it  is  true ;  but  Schopenhauer  was  an  artist,  not  a  moralist ; 
and  he  was  enchanted  with  disenchantment.  Carlyle,  too, 
through  interminable  volumes  shrieked  out  the  necessity  of 
silence.  But  after  Pierre,  Melville  was  without  internal  urg- 


344  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

ings  to  write.  "All  profound  things,  and  emotions  of  things," 
he  wrote  in  Pierre,  "are  preceded  and  attended  by  silence." 
"When  a  man  is  really  in  a  profound  mood,  then  all  merely 
verbal  or  written  profundities  are  unspeakably  repulsive,  and 
seem  downright  childish  to  him."  Infinitely  greater  souls  than 
Melville's  seem  to  have  shared  this  conviction.  Neither  Bud 
dha  nor  Socrates  left  a  single  written  word;  Christ  wrote 
once  only,  and  then  in  the  sand. 

As  if  the  gods  themselves  were  abetting  Melville  in  his 
recoil  from  letters  and  his  contempt  for  his  hard-earned  fame, 
the  Harper's  fire  of  1853  destroyed  the  plates  of  all  his  novels, 
and  practically  all  of  the  copies  of  his  books  then  in  stock. 
One  hundred  and  eighty-five  copies  of  Typee  were  burned ; 
276  copies  of  Omoo;  491  copies  of  Mardi;  296  copies  of  Red- 
burn;  292  copies  of  White-Jacket;  297  copies  of  Moby-Dick; 
494  copies  of  Pierre.  There  survived  only  10  copies  of 
Mardi,  60  copies  of  Moby-Dick  and  no  copies  of  Pierre.  All 
of  these  books  except  Pierre  were  reissued,  but  with  no  rich 
profit  either  to  Harper's  or  to  Melville.  A  typical  royalty 
account  is  that  covering  the  period  between  October  6,  1863, 
and  August  i,  1864.  During  this  period,  54  copies  of  Typee 
were  sold;  56  of  Omoo;  42  of  Rcdburn;  49  of  Mardi;  29  of 
White-Jacket;  48  of  Moby-Dick;  and  27  of  Pierre.  It  was  a 
fortunate  year,  indeed,  for  Melville  that  brought  him  in  $100 
royalties.  During  most  of  his  life,  Melville's  account  with 
Harper's  was  overdrawn :  a  fact  that  speaks  more  for  the 
generosity  of  his  publisher  than  for  the  appreciation  of  his 
public.  Melville  surely  never  achieved  opulence  by  his  pen. 
Convinced  of  the  futility  of  writing  and  effort,  Melville  wanted 
only  tranquillity  for  thought.  But  his  health  was  breaking, 
and  his  family  had  to  be  fed.  So  he  looked  about  him  for 
some  unliterary  employment. 

The  following  letter  from  Richard  Henry  Dana  explains 
itself : 

"BOSTON,  May  10,  1853. 
"DEAR  SIR  : 

"I  am  informed  by  the  Chief  Justice  that  my  friend,  Mr. 
Herman  Melville,  has  been  named  to  the  Government  as  a 


THE  GREAT  REFUSAL  345 

suitable  person  for  the  American  Consulship  at  the   Sand 
wich  Islands. 

"I  acknowledge  no  little  personal  interest  in  Mr.  Melville, 
but  apart  from  that,  I  know,  from  my  early  experience,  and 
from  a  practice  of  many  years  in  Admiralty  &  Maritime  causes, 
the  great  importance  of  having  a  consul  at  the  Sandwich 
Islands  who  knows  the  wants  of  our  vast  Pacific  Marine, 
and  shall  stand  clear  of  those  inducements  of  trade  consign 
ments  which  lead  so  many  consuls  to  neglect  seamen  and  lend 
their  influence  indiscriminately  in  favour  of  owners  and 
masters. 

"Mr.  Melville  has  been  all  over  the  Pacific  Ocean,  in  all 
sorts  of  maritime  service  &  has  the  requisite  acquaintance  & 
interest  to  an  unusual  degree.  Beyond  this,  his  reputation, 
general  intelligence  &  agreeable  manners  will  be  sure  to  make 
him  a  popular  and  useful  officer  among  all  our  citizens  who 
visit  the  Islands.  I  cannot  conceive  of  a  more  appropriate 
appointment,  &  I  sincerely  hope  it  will  be  given  him. 

"If  I  knew  the  President  or  the  Secretary  of  State,  person 
ally,  I  would  take  the  liberty  to  write  them.  As  I  do  not, 
I  beg  you  will  use  whatever  influence  I  may  have  in  any  quar 
ter  in  his  favour. 

"Very  truly  yours, 

"RICHARD  H.  DANA,  JR. 

"ALLAN  MELVILLE,  ESQ." 

Melville  was  not  appointed  to  a  consular  post  in  the  Pacific : 
so  his  brother  Allan  busied  himself  in  looking  for  an  appoint 
ment  elsewhere,  as  the  following  letter,  addressed  to  Hon. 
Lemuel  Shaw,  shows: 

"NEW  YORK,  June  n,  1853. 
"Mv  DEAR  SIR  : 

"Yours  of  the  8th  reached  me  yesterday  advising  me  of  the 
recent  information  you  have  received  through  a  confidential 
source  from  Washington  respecting  a  consulate  for  Herman. 

"There  can  be  no  consulship  in  Italy,  not  even  Rome,  where 
the  fees  would  amount  to  sufficient  to  make  it  an  object  for 
Herman  to  accept  a  position  there. 


346  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

"I  have  positive  information  of  the  value  of  the  Antwerp 
consulate  and  understand  it  to  be  worth  from  $2,500  to  $3,000. 
Should  this  be  tendered,  Herman  ought  to  accept  it. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  say  anything  more  on  this  subject. 
"Herman  is  in  town  and  will  see  you  on  your  arrival. 

"Very  truly  yours, 

"ALLAN  MELVILLE. 

"I  may  add  that  Herman  has  been  specially  urged  for  the 
Antwerp  position  &  that  Mr.  Hawthorne  spoke  to  Mr.  Gush 
ing  of  that  place. 

"A.  M." 

Of  the  domestic  happenings  at  Arrowhead  at  this  time,  very 
little  is  known.  One  letter  of  Mrs.  Melville's  survives : 

"ARROWHEAD,  Aug.  loth,  1853. 
"My  DEAR  FATHER  : 

"I  did  not  mean  that  so  long  a  time  should  elapse,  of  your 
absence  from  home,  without  my  writing  you,  especially  when 
I  have  two  letters  of  yours  to  answer.  It  is  not  because  I 
have  not  thought  of  you  much  and  often,  but  really  because 
I  can  not  find  the  time  to  seat  myself  quietly  down  to  write 
a  letter — that  is  more  than  for  a  hasty  scrawl  to  mother  occa 
sionally — and  inasmuch  as  my  occupations  are  of  the  useful 
and  not  the  frivolous  kind  I  know  you  will  appreciate  the 
apology  and  accept  it.  Three  little  ones  to  look  after  and 
'do  for'  takes  up  no  little  portion  of  the  day,  and  my  baby 
is  as  restless  a  little  mortal  as  ever  crowed.  She  is  very  well 
and  healthy  in  every  respect,  but  not  very  fat,  as  she  sleeps 
very  little  comparatively  and  is  very  active.  A  few  weeks 
since  Malcolm  made  his  debut  as  a  scholar  at  the  white  school 
house  of  Dr.  Holmes'.  I  was  afraid  he  would  lose  the  little 
he  already  knew  'of  letters'  and  as  I  could  not  find  the  time 
to  give  him  regular  instruction,  I  sent  him  to  school  rather 
earlier  than  I  should  have  done  otherwise.  The  neighbours' 
children  call  for  him  every  morning,  and  he  goes  off  with  his 
pail  of  dinner  in  one  hand  and  his  primer  in  the  other,  to  our 
no  small  amusement.  The  grand  feature  of  the  day  to  him 


THE  GREAT  REFUSAL  347 

seems  to  be  the  'eating  his  dinner  under  the  trees' — as  he 
always  gives  that  as  his  occupation  when  asked  what  he  does 
at  school — and  as  his  pail  is  invariably  empty  when  he  re 
turns,  he  does  full  justice  to  the  noon-tide  meal.  Stannie 
begins  to  talk  a  great  deal,  and  seems  to  be  uncommonly  for 
ward  for  his  age.  He  has  a  severe  cough,  which  I  think  will 
prove  the  whooping-cough  as  there  is  a  great  deal  of  it  about 
at  present/' 

Failing  of  a  consular  appointment,  Melville  was  forced  to 
continue  writing.  He  busied  himself  with  the  story  of  the 
"revolutionary  beggar."  Melville  based  his  story  upon  "a 
little  narrative,  forlornly  published  on  sleazy  grey  paper,"  that 
he  had  ''rescued  by  the  merest  chance  from  the  rag-pickers." 
Copies  of  this  narrative  are  not  excessively  rare.  The  title 
page  reads:  "Life  and  Remarkable  Adventures  of  Israel  R. 
Potter  (a  native  of  Cranston,  Rhode  Island)  who  was  a  sol 
dier  in  the  American  Revolution,  and  took  a  distinguished 
part  in  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill  (in  which  he  received  three 
wounds)  after  which  he  was  taken  Prisoner  by  the  British, 
conveyed  to  England,  where  for  thirty  years  he  obtained  a 
livelihood  for  himself  and  family,  by  crying  'Old  Chairs  to 
Mend'  through  the  Streets  of  London. — In  May  last,  by  the 
assistance  of  the  American  Consul,  he  succeeded  (in  the  79th 
year  of  his  age)  in  obtaining  a  passage  to  his  native  country, 
after  an  absence  of  48  years.  Providence :  Printed  by  Henry 
Trumbull — 1824  (Price  28  cents)."  The  result  was  Israel  Pot 
ter,  published  in  book  form  by  G.  P.  Putnam  in  1855,  after 
having  appeared  serially  in  Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine.  Israel 
Potter  is,  in  most  part,  a  spirited  narrative  containing,  so  Mr. 
Mather  states,  "the  best  account  of  a  sea  fight  in  American 
fiction."  It  was  praised,  too,  by  Hawthorne  for  its  delinea 
tions  of  Franklin  and  John  Paul  Jones,  and  doubtless  deserves 
a  wider  recognition  than  has  ever  been  given  it.  Interestingly 
enough,  the  book  is  dedicated  to  Bunker  Hill  Monument. 

Between  1853  and  1856,  Melville  published  twelve  articles, 
inclusive  of  Israel  Potter,  in  Putnam's  Magazine  and  in  Har 
per's  Monthly.  Melville  made  from  a  selection  from  these  his 


348  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Piazza  Tales  (1856),  published  in  New  York  by  Dix  and 
Edwards,  in  London  by  Sampson  Low.  Of  these,  The  Bell 
Tower,  Don  Bcnito  Cereno  and  The  Encantadas  show  the  last 
glow  of  Melville's  literary  glamour,  the  final  momentary  bright 
ening  of  the  embers  before  they  sank  into  blackness  and  ash. 
There  exists  a  letter  from  Putnam's  Monthly,  dated  May  12, 
1854,  and  signed  by  Charles  T.  Briggs — refusing  a  still  un 
published  story  of  Melville's  out  of  fear  of  "offending  the 
religious  sensibilities  of  the  public  and  the  Congregation  of 
Grace  Church."  This  letter  is  less  important  because  of  its 
exquisite  sensitiveness,  than  because  of  its  mention  of  a  letter 
from  Lowell;  a  letter  in  which  Lowell  is  reported  to  have 
read  The  Encantadas.  According  to  Briggs'  communication, 
Lowell  was  so  moved  that  "the  figure  of  the  cross  on  the 
ass*  neck  brought  tears  into  his  eyes,  and  he  thought  it  the 
finest  touch  of  genius  he  had  seen  in  prose."  Swinburne 
speaks  of  "the  generous  pleasure  of  praising"  :  this  pleasure 
Lowell  indulged  frequently,  and  in  his  wholesome  and  whole 
hearted  way.  Of  Hawthorne,  Lowell  said :  "The  rarest  cre 
ative  imagination  of  the  century,  the  rarest  in  some  ideal 
respects  since  Shakespeare."  The  Confidence  Man  was  pub- 
lished  in  1857:  but  it  was  a  posthumous  work.  Thereafter, 
Melville  was  to  try  his  hand  at  poetry,  and  with  results  little 
meriting  the  total  oblivion  into  which  his  poetry  has  fallen ;  and 
in  his  old  age  he  was  again  to  turn  to  prose:  but  before  Mel 
ville  was  half  through  his  mortal  life  his  signal  literary  achieve 
ment  was  done.  The  rest,  if  not  silence,  was  whisper. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   LONG  QUIETUS 

"The  round  face  of  the  grub-man  peered  upon  me  now.  'Hts  dinner  is 
ready.  Won't  he  dine  to-day,  either?  Or  does  he  live  without  dining?' 

'Lives  without  dining/  said  I,  and  closed  the  eyes. 
"'Eh!— He's  asleep,  ain't  he?' 
"  'With  kings  and  counsellors/  murmured  I." 

— HERMAN  MELVILLE:  Bartleby  the  Scrivener. 

"THE  death  of  Herman  Melville,"  wrote  Arthur  Stedman, 
"came  as  a  surprise  to  the  public  at  large,  chiefly  because  it 
revealed  the  fact  that  such  a  man  had  lived  so  long."  The 
New  York  Times  missed  the  news  of  Melville's  death  (on 
September  28,  1891)  and  published  a  few  days  later  an  edi 
torial  beginning: 

"There  has  died  and  been  buried  in  this  city,  during  the 
current  week,  at  an  advanced  age,  a  man  who  is  so  little  known, 
even  by  name,  to  the  generation  now  in  the  vigour  of  life, 
that  only  one  newspaper  contained  an  obituary  account  of  him, 
and  this  was  of  but  three  or  four  lines." 

In  1885,  Robert  Buchanan  published  in  the  London  Academy 
a  pasquinade  containing  the  following  lines: 

"...  Melville,  sea-compelling  man, 
Before  whose  wand  Leviathan 
Rose  hoary  white  upon  the  Deep, 
With  awful  sounds  that  stirred  its  sleep; 
Melville,  whose  magic  drew  Typee, 
Radiant  as  Venus,  from  the  sea, 
Sits  all  forgotten  or  ignored, 
While  haberdashers  are  adored ! 
He,  ignorant  of  the  draper's  trade, 

Indifferent  to  the  art  of  dress, 
Pictured  the  glorious  South  Sea  maid 

Almost  in  mother  nakedness — 
Without  a  hat,  or  boot,  or  stocking, 
A  want  of  dress  to  most  so  shocking, 
With  just  one  chemisette  to  dress  her 
349 


350  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

She  lives — and  still  shall  live,  God  bless  her, 
Long  as  the  sea  rolls  deep  and  blue, 

While  Heaven  repeats  the  thunder  of  it, 
Long  as  the  White  Whale  ploughs  it  through, 
The  shape  my  sea-magician  drew 

Shall  still  endure,  or  I'm  no  prophet ! 

In  a  footnote,  Buchanan  added : 

"I  sought  everywhere  for  this  Triton,  who  is  still  living 
somewhere  in  New  York.  No  one  seemed  to  know  anything 
of  the  one  great  writer  fit  to  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
Whitman  on  that  continent." 

If  this  man,  who  had  in  mid-career  been  hailed  at  home  and 
abroad  as  one  of  the  glories  of  our  literature,  died  ''forgotten 
and  ignored,"  it  was,  after  all,  in  accordance  with  his  own  de 
sires.  Adventurous  life  and  action  was  the  stuff  out  of  which 
his  reputation  had  been  made.  But  in  the  middle  of  his  life, 
he  turned  his  back  upon  the  world,  and  in  his  recoil  from  life 
absorbed  himself  in  metaphysics.  He  avoided  all  unnecessary 
associations  and  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  he  lived  in  sedu 
lous  isolation.  He  resisted  all  efforts  to  draw  him  out  of  re 
tirement — though  such  efforts  were  very  few  indeed.  Arthur 
Stedman  tells  us :  "It  is  generally  admitted  that  had  Melville 
been  willing  to  join  freely  in  the  literary  movements  of  New 
York,  his  name  would  have  remained  before  the  public  and  a 
larger  sale  of  his  works  would  have  been  insured.  But  more 
and  more,  as  he  grew  older,  he  avoided  every  action  on  his 
part  and  on  the  part  of  his  family  that  might  look  in  this  direc 
tion,  even  declining  to  assist  in  founding  the  Authors  Club  in 
1882."  With  an  aggressive  indifference  he  looked  back  in 
Clarel  to 

"Adventures,  such  as  duly  shown 
Printed  in  books,  seem  passing  strange 
To  clerks  which  read  them  by  the  fire, 
Yet  be  the  wonted  common-place 
Of  some  who  in  the  Orient  range, 
Free-lances,  spendthrifts  of  their  hire, 
And  who  in  end,  when  they  retrace 
Their  lives,  see  little  to  admire 
Or  wonder  at,  so  dull  they  be." 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  351 

When  Titus  Munson  Coan  was  a  student  at  Williams  Col 
lege,  prompted  by  a  youthful  curiosity  to  hunt  out  celebrities, 
he  called  upon  Melville  at  Arrowhead.  In  an  undated  letter 
to  his  mother  he  thus  recounted  the  experience :  "I  have  made 
my  first  literary  pilgrimage — a  call  upon  Herman  Melville, 
the  renowned  author  of  Typce,  &c.  He  lives  in  a  spacious 
farm-house  about  two  miles  from  Pittsfield,  a  weary  walk 
through  the  dust.  But  it  was  well  repaid.  I  introduced  my 
self  as  a  Hawaiian-American  and  soon  found  myself  in  full 
tide  of  talk — or  rather  of  monologue.  But  he  would  not  re 
peat  the  experiences  of  which  I  had  been  reading  with  rapture 
in  his  books.  In  vain  I  sought  to  hear  of  Typee  and  those 
Paradise  islands,  but  he  preferred  to  pour  forth  his  philosophy 
and  his  theories  of  life.  The  shade  of  Aristotle  arose  like  a 
cold  mist  between  myself  and  Fayaway.  We  have  quite  enough 
of  Greek  philosophy  at  Williams  College,  and  I  confess  I  was 
disappointed  in  this  trend  of  the  talk.  But  what  a  talk  it  was ! 
Melville  is  transformed  from  a  Marquesan  to  a  gypsy  student, 
the  gypsy  element  still  remaining  strong  in  him.  And  this 
contradiction  gives  him  the  air  of  one  who  has  suffered  from 
opposition,  both  literary  and  social.  With  his  liberal  views 
he  is  apparently  considered  by  the  good  people  of  Pittsfield 
as  little  better  than  a  cannibal  or  a  'beach-comber.'  His  atti 
tude  seemed  to  me  something  like  that  of  an  Ishmael;  but  per 
haps  I  judged  hastily.  I  managed  to  draw  him  out  very  freely 
on  everything  but  the  Marquesas  Islands,  and  when  I  left  him 
he  was  in  full  tide  of  discourse  on  all  things  sacred  and  pro 
fane.  But  he  seems  to  put  away  the  objective  side  of  life 
and  to  shut  himself  up  in  this  cold  North  as  a  cloistered 
thinker." 

An  article  appearing  the  New  York  Times,  under  the  ini 
tials  O.  G.  H.,  a  week  after  Melville's  death,  said  of  him:; 

"He  had  shot  his  arrow  and  made  his  mark,  and  was  satis 
fied.  With  considerable  knowledge  of  the  world,  he  had  pre 
ferred  to  see  it  from  a  distance.  ...  I  asked  the  loan  of  some 
of  his  books  which  in  early  life  had  given  me  pleasure  and  was 
surprised  when  he  said  that  he  didn't  own  a  single  copy  oi 
them.  ...  I  had  before  noticed  that  though  eloquent  in  dis- 


352  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

cussing  general  literature  he  was  dumb  when  the  subject  of 
his  own  writings  was  broached." 

In  her  sketch  of  her  husband's  life,  Mrs.  Melville  says:  "In 
February,  1855,  he  had  his  first  attack  of  severe  rheumatism — 
and  in  the  following  June  an  attack  of  sciatica.  Our  neigh 
bour  in  Pittsfield,  Dr.  O.  W.  Holmes,  attended  and  prescribed 
for  him.  A  severe  attack  of  what  he  called  crick  in  the  back 
laid  him  up  at  his  mother's  in  Gansevoort  in  March,  1858 — 
and  he  never  regained  his  former  vigour  and  strength."  In 
1863,  so  runs  the  account  of  J.  E.  A.  Smith,  while  Melville 
was  in  process  of  moving  from  Arrowhead,  "he  had  occasion 
for  some  household  articles  he  left  behind,  and,  with  a  friend, 
started  in  a  rude  wagon  to  procure  them.  He  was  driving  at 
a  moderate  pace  over  a  perfectly  smooth  and  level  road, 
when  a  sudden  start  of  the  horse  threw  both  occupants  from 
the  wagon;  probably  on  account  of  an  imperfectly  secured  seat. 
Mr.  Melville  fell  with  his  back  in  a  hollow  of  the  frozen  road, 
and  was  very  severely  injured.  Being  conveyed  to  his  home  by 
Col.  George  S.  Willis,  near  whose  farm  on  Williams  Street 
the  accident  happened,  he  suffered  painfully  for  many  weeks. 
This  prolonged  agony  and  the  confinement  and  interruption  of 
work  which  it  entailed,  affected  him  strangely.  He  had  been 
before  on  mountain  excursions  a  driver  daring  almost  to  the 
point  of  recklessness.  .  .  .  After  this  accident  he  not  only 
abandoned  the  rides  of  which  he  had  been  so  fond,  but  for  a 
time  shrank  from  entering  a  carriage.  It  was  long  before  the 
shock  which  his  system  had  received  was  overcome;  and  it  is 
doubtful  whether  it  ever  was  completely."  Ill  health  certainly 
contributed  more  to  Melville's  retirement  from  letters  than  any 
of  his  critics — Mr.  Mather  excepted — have  ever  even  remotely 
suggested. 

During  the  last  half  of  his  life,  Melville  twice  journeyed  far 
from  home.  In  her  journal  Mrs.  Melville  says :  "In  October, 
1856,  his  health  being  impaired  by  too  close  application,  he 
again  sailed  for  London.  He  went  up  the  Mediterranean  to 
Constantinople  and  the  Holy  Land.  For  much  of  his  obser 
vation  and  reflection  in  that  interesting  quarter  see  his  poem 
of  Clorel.  Sailed  for  home  on  the  steamer  City  of  Manches- 


I  IK  R  MAX  MKLVII.T.K  IX  1868 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  353 

ter  May  6,  1857.  In  May,  1860,  he  made  a  voyage  to  San 
Francisco,  sailing  from  Boston  on  the  3Oth  of  May  with  his 
brother  Thomas  Melville  who  commanded  the  Meteor,  a  fast 
sailing  clipper  in  the  China  trade — and  returning  in  Novem 
ber,  he  being  the  only  passenger.  He  reached  San  Francisco 
Oct.  1 2th — returned  in  the  Carter  Oct.  20  to  Panama — crossed 
the  Isthmus  &  sailed  for  New  York  on  the  North  Star. 
This  voyage  to  San  Francisco  has  been  incorrectly  given  in 
many  of  the  papers  of  the  day." 

Of  this  trip  to  the  Holy  Land  there  survive,  beside  Clarel 
and  Hawthorne's  accounts  of  the  meeting  en  route,  a  long  and 
closely  written  journal  that  Melville  kept  during  the  trip,  and 
twenty-one  shorter  poems  printed  in  Timoleon  under  the  cap 
tion  "Fruit  of  Travel  Long  Ago."  Typical  of  these  shorter 
poems  is 

THE  APPARITION 

(The  Parthenon  uplifted  on  its  rock  first  challenging  the  view 
on  the  approach  to  Athens) 

Abrupt  the  supernatural  Cross, 

Vivid  in  startled  air, 

Smote  the  Emperor  Constantine 

And  turned  his  soul's  allegiance  there 

With  other  power  appealing  down, 
Trophy  of  Adam's  best ! 
If  cynic  minds  you  scarce  convert 
You  try  them,  shake  them,  or  molest. 

Diogenes,  that  honest  heart, 

Lived  ere  your  date  began : 

Thee  had  he  seen,  he  might  have  swerved 

In  mood  nor  barked  so  much  at  man. 

The  journal  was  surely  never  written  with  a  view  to  publi 
cation.  It  is  a  staccato  jotting  down  of  impressions,  chiefly  in 
teresting  (as  is  Dr.  Johnson's  French  journal)  as  another  evi 
dence  of  Melville's  scope  of  curiosity  and  keenness  of  observa 
tion.  A  typical  entry  is  that  for  Saturday,  December  13, — 
Melville's  first  day  in  Constantinople : 


354  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

"Up  early;  went  out;  saw  cemeteries  where  they  dumped 
garbage.  Sawing  wood  over  a  tomb.  Forest  of  cemeteries. 
Intricacies  of  the  streets.  Started  alone  for  Constantinople 
and  after  a  terrible  long  walk  found  myself  back  where  I 
started.  Just  like  getting  lost  in  a  wood.  No  plan  to  streets. 
Pocket  compass.  Perfect  labyrinth.  Narrow.  Close,  shut  in. 
If  one  could  but  get  up  aloft,  it  would  be  easy  to  see  one's  way 
out.  If  you  could  get  up  into  a  tree.  Soar  out  of  the  maze. 
But  no.  No  names  to  the  streets  no  more  than  to  natural 
alleys  among  the  groves.  No  numbers,  no  anything.  Break 
fasted  at  10  A.  M.  Took  guide  ($1.25  per  day)  and  started 
for  tour.  Took  Cargua  for  Seraglio.  Holy  ground.  Crossed 
some  extensive  grounds  and  gardens.  Fine  buildings  of  the 
Saracenic  style.  Saw  the  Mosque  of  St.  Sophia.  Went  in. 
Rascally  priests  demanding  'baksheesh/  Fleeced  me  out  of  J4 
dollar;  following  me  round,  selling  the  fallen  mosaics.  As 
cended  a  kind  of  hose  way  leading  up,  round  and  round. 
Came  into  a  gallery  fifty  feet  above  the  floor.  Superb  in 
terior.  Precious  marbles.  Prophyry  &  Verd  antique.  Im 
mense  magnitude  of  the  building.  Names  of  the  prophets  in 
great  letters.  Roman  Catholic  air  to  the  whole.  To  the  hip 
podrome,  near  which  stands  the  six  towered  mosque  of  Sultan 
Achmed ;  soaring  up  with  its  snowy  white  spires  into  the  pure 
blue  sky.  Like  light-houses.  Nothing  finer.  In  the  hippo 
drome  saw  the  obelisk  with  Roman  inscription  on  the  base. 
Also  a  broken  monument  of  bronze,  representing  three  twisted 
serpents  erect  upon  their  tails.  Heads  broken  off.  Also  a 
square  monument  of  masoned  blocks.  Leaning  over  and  frit 
tered  away, — like  an  old  chimney  stack.  A  Greek  inscription 
shows  it  to  be  of  the  time  of  Theodoric.  Sculpture  about  the 
base  of  the  obelisk,  representing  Constantine  &  wife  and  sons, 
&c.  Then  saw  the  'Burnt  Column.'  Black  and  grimy  enough 
&  hooped  about  with  iron.  Stands  soaring  up  from  among  a 
bundle  of  old  wooden  stakes.  A  more  striking  fire  mount  than 
that  of  London.  Then  to  the  cistern  of  1001  columns.  You 
see  a  rounded  knoll  covered  with  close  herbage.  Then  a  kind 
of  broken  cellar-way  you  go  down,  and  find  yourself  on  a 
wooden,  rickety  platform,  looking  down  into  a  grove  of  marble 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  355 

pillars,  fading  away  into  the  darkness.  A  palatial  sort  of  Tar 
tarus.  Two  tiers  of  pillars,  one  standing  on  the  other;  lower 
tier  half  buried.  Here  and  there  a  little  light  percolates 
through  from  breaks  in  the  keys  of  the  arches;  where  bits  of 
green  struggle  down.  Used  to  be  a  reservoir.  Now  full  of 
boys  twisting  silk.  Great  hubbub.  Flit  about  like  imps. 
Whirr  of  the  spinning  Jenns.  In  going  down,  (as  into  a 
ship's  hold)  and  wandering  about,  have  to  beware  the  innum 
erable  skeins  of  silk.  Terrible  place  to  be  robbed  or  mur 
dered  in.  At  whatever  place  you  look,  you  see  lines  of  pillars, 
like  trees  in  an  orchard  arranged  in  the  quincunx  style. — Came 
out.  Overhead  looks  like  a  mere  shabby  common,  or  worn  out 
sheep  pasture. — To  the  bazaar.  A  wilderness  of  traffic.  Fur 
niture,  arms,  silks,  confectionery,  shoes,  saddles, — everything. 
(Cario)  Covered  overhead  with  stone  arches,  with  wide  open 
ings.  Immense  crowds.  Georgians,  Armenians,  Greeks,  Jews 
&  Turks  are  the  merchants.  Magnificent  embroidered  silk  & 
gilt  sabres  &  caparisons  for  horses.  You  lose  yourself  &  are 
bewildered  and  confounded  with  the  labyrinth,  the  din,  the 
barbaric  confusion  of  the  whole. — Went  to  Watch  Tower 
within  a  kind  of  arsenal  (Immense  arsenal)  the  tower  of  vast 
girth  &  height  in  the  Saracenic  style — a  column.  From  the 
top,  my  God,  what  a  view !  Surpassing  everything.  The 
Propontis,  the  Bosphorus,  the  Golden  Horn,  the  domes,  the 
minarets,  the  bridges,  the  men-of-war,  the  cypresses. — Inde 
scribable.  Went  to  the  Pigeon  Mosque.  In  its  court,  the 
pigeons  covered  the  pavement  as  thick  as  in  the  West  they  fly 
in  hosts.  A  man  feeding  them.  Some  perched  upon  the  roof 
of  the  colonnades  &  upon  the  fountain  in  the  middle  &  on  the 
cypresses.  Took  off  my  shoes  and  went  in.  Pigeons  inside, 
flying  round  in  the  dome,  in  &  out  the  lofty  windows.  Went 
to  Mosque  of  Sultan  Suleiman.  The  third  one  in  point  of 
size  and  splendour.  The  Mosque  is  a  sort  of  marble  mosque 
of  which  the  minarets  (four  or  six)  are  the  stakes.  In  fact 
when  inside  it  struck  me  that  the  idea  of  this  kind  of  edifice 
was  borrowed  from  the  tent.  Though  it  would  make  a  noble 
ball  room.  Off  shoes  and  went  in.  This  custom  more  sensible 
than  taking  off  hat.  Muddy  shoes;  but  never  muddy  head. 


356  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Floor  covered  with  mats  &  on  them  beautiful  rugs  of  great 
size  &  square.  Fine  light  coming  through  the  side  slits  below 
the  dome.  Blind  dome.  Many  Turks  at  prayer ;  lowering  head 
to  the  floor  towards  a  kind  of  altar.  Charity  going  on.  In  a 
gallery  saw  lot  of  portmanteaux,  chests  &  bags;  as  in  a  R.  R. 
baggage  car.  Put  there  for  safe-keeping  by  men  who  leave 
home,  or  afraid  of  robbers  and  taxation.  'Lay  not  up  your 
treasures  where  moth  and  rust  do  corrupt'  &c.  Fountains  (a 
row  of  them)  outside  along  the  side  of  the  mosque  for  bath 
ing  the  feet  and  hands  of  worshippers  before  going  in.  Nat 
ural  rock. — Instead  of  going  in  in  stockings  (as  I  did)  the 
Turks  wear  overshoes  and  doff  them  outside  the  mosque.  The 
tent-like  form  of  the  Mosque  broken  up  &  dumbfounded  with 
infinite  number  of  arches,  trellises,  small  domes,  colonnades, 
&c,  &c,  &c.  Went  down  to  the  Golden  Horn.  Crossed  bridge 
of  pontoons.  Stood  in  the  middle  and  not  a  cloud  in  the 
sky.  Deep  blue  and  clear.  Delightful  elastic  atmosphere,  al 
though  December.  A  kind  of  English  June  cooled  and  tem 
pered  sherbet-like  with  an  American  October;  the  serenity  & 
beauty  of  summer  without  the  heat. — Came  home  through  the 
vast  suburbs  of  Galatea,  &c.  Great  crowds  of  all  nations — 
money  changers  coins  of  all  nations  circulate — placards  in  four 
or  five  languages :  (Turkish,  French,  Greek,  Armenian)  Lot 
tery  advertisements  of  boats  the  same.  Sultan's  ship  in  colours 
— no  atmosphere  like  this  for  flags.  You  feel  you  are  among 
the  nations.  Great  curse  that  of  Babel;  not  being  able  to  talk 
to  a  fellow  being,  &c. — Have  to  tend  to  your  pockets.  My 
guide  went  with  his  hands  to  his. — The  horrible  grimy  tragic 
air  of  the  Streets.  (Ruffians  of  Galatea)  The  rotten  & 
wicked  looking  houses.  So  gloomy  &  grimy  seem  as  if  a  sui 
cide  hung  from  every  rafter  within. — No  open  spaces — no 
squares  or  parks.  You  suffocate  for  room.— You  pass  close 
together.  The  cafes  of  the  Turks.  Dingy  holes,  faded  splen 
dour,  moth  eaten.  On  both  sides  rude  seats  and  divans  where 
the  old  musty  Turks  sit  smoking  like  conjurers.  Saw  in  cer 
tain  kiosks  (pavilions)  the  crowns  of  the  late  Sultan.  You 
look  through  gilt  gratings  &  between  heavy  curtains  of  lace, 
at  the  sparkling  things.  Near  the  Mosque  of  Sultan  Suleiman 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  357 

saw  the  cemetery  of  his  family — big  as  that  of  a  small  village, 
all  his  wives  and  children  and  servants.  All  gilt  and  carved. 
The  women's  tombs  carved  with  heads  (women  no  souls). 
The  Sultan  Suleiman's  tomb  £  that  of  his  three  brothers  in  a 
kiosk.  Gilded  like  mantel  ornaments." 

Clarel  was,  in  1876,  printed  at  Melville's  expense.  More 
accurately,  its  printing  was  made  possible  by  his  uncle,  Hon. 
Peter  Gansevoort,  who,  as  Melville  says  in  the  dedication,  "in 
a  personal  interview  provided  for  the  publication  of  this  poem, 
known  to  him  by  report,  as  existing  in  manuscript." 

Not  the  least  impressive  thing  about  Clarel  is  its  length :  it 
extends  to  571  pages.  Mr.  Mather  states:  "Of  those  who 
have  actually  perused  the  four  books  (of  verse)  and  Clarel, 
I  am  presumably  the  only  survivor."  Mr.  Mather  is  mis 
taken  :  there  are  two.  But  since,  because  of  the  excessive 
length  of  Clarel  and  the  excessive  scarcity  of  John  Marr  and 
Timoleon  (both  privately  printed  in  an  edition  of  only  twenty- 
five  copies)  it  would  be  over-optimistic  to  presume  that  there 
will  soon  be  a  third,  some  account  must  be  given  of  Melville's 
poetry. 

Stevenson  once  said :  "There  are  but  two  writers  who  have 
touched  the  South  Seas  with  any  genius,  both  Americans: 
Melville  and  Charles  Warren  Stoddard ;  and  at  the  christening 
of  the  first  and  greatest,  some  influential  fairy  must  have  been 
neglected ;  'He  shall  be  able  to  see' ;  'He  shall  be  able  to  tell' ; 
'He  shall  be  able  to  charm,'  said  the  friendly  godmothers ;  'But 
he  shall  not  be  able  to  hear !'  exclaimed  the  last."  When  Stev 
enson  wrote  his  passage,  the  artist  in  him  seems  for  the  mo 
ment  to  have  slept;  taking  no  account  of  Melville's  frequent 
mastery  of  the  magic  of  words,  he  berates  Melville's  genius 
for  misspelling  Polynesian  names  as  a  defect  of  genius.  That 
Melville  had  an  ear  sensitive  to  the  cadences  of  prose  is  shown 
by  the  facility  with  which  he  on  occasion  caught  the  rhythm 
both  of  the  Psalms  and  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne.  Yet  the  same 
man  who  at  his  best  is  equalled  only  by  Poe  in  the  subtle  mel 
ody  of  his  prose,  at  times  fell  into  ranting  passages  of  obvious 
and  intolerable  parody  of  blank  verse.  The  following  from 
Mardi  is  an  example :  "From  dawn  till  eve,  the  bright,  bright 


358  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

days  sped  on,  chased  by  the  gloomy  nights ;  and,  in  glory  dying, 
lent  their  lustre  to  the  starry  skies.  So,  long  the  radiant  dol 
phins  fly  before  the  sable  sharks;  but  seized,  and  torn  in  flames 
—die,  burning: — their  last  splendour  left,  in  sparkling  scales 
that  float  along  the  sea."  In  his  poetry,  as  in  his  prose,  is  the 
same  incongruous  mating  of  astonishing  facility  and  flagrant 
defect.  It  is  the  same  paradox  that  one  finds  in  Browning  and 
in  Meredith, — whose  poetry  Melville's  more  than  superficially 
resembles.  Melville  shared  with  these  men  a  greater  interest 
in  ideas  than  in  verbal  prettiness,  and  like  the  best  of  them, 
when  mastered  by  a  refractory  idea,  he  was  not  over-exquisite 
in  his  regard  for  prosody  and  syntax  in  getting  it  said.  When 
he  had  a  mind  to,  however,  he  could  pound  with  a  lustiness 
that  should  endear  him  to  those  who  delight  in  declamation 
contests:  a  contemptible  distinction,  perhaps — but  even  that 
has  been  denied  him.  The  poem  to  the  Swamp  Angel,  for 
example,  the  great  gun  that  reduced  Charleston,  is  fine  in  its 
irony  and  vigour.  The  poem  begins: 

There  is  a  coal-black  Angel 

With  a  thick  Afric  lip 
And  he  dwells  (like  the  hunted  and  harried) 

In  a  swamp  where  the  green  frogs  dip 
But  his  face  is  against  a  City 

Which  is  over  a  bay  by  the  sea, 
And  he  breathes  with  a  breath  that  is  blastment 

And  dooms  by  a  far  degree. 

Though  there  are  memorable  lines  and  stanzas  in  Battle- 
Pieces,  only  one  of  the  poems  in  the  volume  has  ever  been  at 
all  noticed :  Sheridan  at  Cedar  Creek,  beginning : 

Shoe  the  steed  with  silver 

That  bore  him  to  the  fray, 
Wrhen  he  heard  the  guns  at  dawning 

Miles  away; 
When  he  heard  them  calling,  calling — 

Mount !  nor  stay. 

The  following  letter  to  his  brother  Tom  bears  upon  Mel 
ville's  Battle-Pieces. 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  359 

"PITTSFIELD,  May  25th,  1862. 
"Mv  DEAR  BOY:  (or,  if  that  appears  disrespectful) 
"MY  DEAR  CAPTAIN  : 

"Yesterday  I  received  from  Gansevoort  your  long  and  very 
entertaining  letter  to  Mamma  from  Pernambuco.  Yes,  it  was 
very  entertaining.  Particularly  the  account  of  that  interesting 
young  gentleman  whom  you  so  uncivilly  stigmatise  for  a  jack 
ass,  simply  because  he  improves  his  opportunities  in  the  way 
of  sleeping,  eating  &  other  commendable  customs.  That's 
the  sort  of  fellow,  seems  to  me,  to  get  along  with.  For  my 
part  I  love  sleepy  fellows,  and  the  more  ignorant  the  better. 
Damn  your  wide-awake  and  knowing  chaps.  As  for  sleepi 
ness,  it  is  one  of  the  noblest  qualities  of  humanity.  There  is 
something  sociable  about  it,  too.  Think  of  those  sensible  & 
sociable  millions  of  good  fellows  all  taking  a  good  long 
friendly  snooze  together,  under  the  sod — no  quarrels,  no  imag 
inary  grievances,  no  envies,  heartburnings,  &  thinking  how 
much  better  that  other  chap  is  off — none  of  this :  but  all  equally 
free-&-easy,  they  sleep  away  &  reel  off  their  nine  knots 
an  hour,  in  perfect  amity.  If  you  see  your  sleepy  ignorant 
jackass-friend  again,  give  him  my  compliments,  and  say  that 
however  others  may  think  of  him,  I  honour  and  esteem  him. — 
As  for  your  treatment  of  the  young  man,  there  I  entirely 
commend  you.  You  remember  what  the  Bible  says : — 


'Oh  ye  who  teach  the  children  of  the  nations, 
Holland,  France,  England,  Germany  or  Spain, 
I  pray  ye  strap  them  upon  all  occasions, 
It  mends  their  morals — never  mind  the  pain." 


"In  another  place  the  Bible  says,  you  know,  something  about 
sparing  the  strap  &  spoiling  the  child. — Since  I  have  quoted 
poetry  above,  it  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  own  doggerel.  You 
will  be  pleased  to  learn  that  I  have  disposed  of  a  lot  of  it  at  a 
great  bargain.  In  fact,  a  trunk-maker  took  the  whole  lot  off 
my  hands  at  ten  cents  the  pound.  So,  when  you  buy  a  new 
trunk  again,  just  peep  at  the  lining  &  perhaps  you  may  be 


360  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

rewarded  by  some  glorious  stanza  staring  you  in  the  face  & 
claiming  admiration.  If  you  were  not  such  a  devil  of  a  ways 
off,  I  would  send  you  a  trunk,  by  way  of  presentation-copy. 
I  can't  help  thinking  what  a  luckless  chap  you  were  that  voy 
age  you  had  a  poetaster  with  you.  You  remember  the  roman 
tic  moonlight  night,  when  the  conceited  donkey  repeated  to  you 
about  three  cables'  length  of  his  verses.  But  you  bore  it  like 
a  hero.  I  can't  in  fact  recall  so  much  as  a  single  wince.  To 
be  sure,  you  went  to  bed  immediately  upon  the  conclusion  of 
the  entertainment;  but  this  much  I  am  sure  of,  whatever  were 
your  sufferings,  you  never  gave  them  utterance.  Tom,  my 
boy,  I  admire  you.  I  say  again,  you  are  a  hero. — By  the  way, 
I  hope  in  God's  name,  that  rumour  which  reached  your  owners 
(C.  &  P.)  a  few  weeks  since — that  dreadful  rumour  is  not  true. 
They  heard  that  you  had  begun  to  take  to — drink? — Oh  no, 
but  worse — to  sonnet-writing.  That  off  Cape  Horn  instead 
of  being  on  deck  about  your  business,  you  devoted  your  time 
to  writing  a  sonnet  on  your  mistress'  eyebrow,  &  another  upon 
her  thumbnail. — Til  be  damned,'  says  Curtis  (he  was  very 
profane)  'if  I'll  have  a  sonneteer  among  my  Captains.' — 'Well, 
if  he  has  taken  to  poetising/  says  Peabody — 'God  help  the  ship !' 

And  now,  my  boy,  if  you  knew  hew  much  laziness  I  overcame 
in  writing  you  this  letter,  you  would  think  me,  what  I  am 
"Always  your  affectionate  brother, 

"HERMAN." 

Melville's  family  seem  all  to  have  been  more  sceptical  of 
his  verse  than  they  were  of  his  prose.  In  1859  Mrs.  Melville 
wrote  to  her  mother  "Herman  has  taken  to  writing  poetry. 
You  need  not  tell  any  one,  for  you  know  how  such  things  get 
around."  Mrs.  Melville  was  too  optimistic:  her  husband's 
indiscreet  practice  is  still  pretty  much  a  secret  to  the  world  at 
large.  And  Clarcl,  his  longest  and  most  important  poem,  is 
practically  impossible  to  come  by. 

In  1884,  Melville  said  of  Clarel  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  James 
Billson :  "a  metrical  affair,  a  pilgrimage  or  what  not,  of  sev 
eral  thousand  lines,  eminently  adapted  for  unpopularity." 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  361 

Though  this  is  completely  true,  Melville  used  in  Clarel  more 
irony,  vividness,  and  intellect  than  the  whole  congregation  of 
practising  poets  of  the  present  day  (a  few  notable  names  ex- 
cepted)  could  muster  in  aggregate.  Yet  with  all  this  wealth  of 
the  stuff  of  poetry,  the  poem  never  quite  fulfils  itself. 
In  Clarel  Melville  brings  together  in  the  Holy  Land  a  group  of 
pilgrims;  pilgrims  nearly  all  drawn  from  the  life,  as  a  study 
of  his  Journal  of  1856-7  shows.  In  this  group  there  are  men 
devout  and  men  sceptical,  some  suave  in  orthodoxy,  and  some 
militant  in  doubt.  There  are  dreamers  and  men  of  action ;  un 
principled  saints,  and  rakes  without  vice.  In  the  bleak  and 
legend-haunted  Holy  Land  Melville  places  these  men,  and 
dramatises  his  own  reactions  to  life  in  this  setting.  The  prob 
lem  of  faith  is  the  pivot  of  endless  discussion:  and  upon  this 
pivot  is  made  to  turn  all  of  the  problems  of  destiny  that  en 
gage  a  "pondering  man."  These  discussions  take  place  against 
a  panorama  of  desert  and  monastery  and  shrine.  In  some  of 
the  interpolated  songs  of  Clarel,  Melville  almost  achieved  the 
lyric  mood. 

My  shroud  is  saintly  linen, 

In  lavender  'tis  laid ; 
I  have  chosen  a  bed  by  the  marigold 

And  supplied  me  a  silver  spade. 

And  there  are,  too,  incidental  legends  and  saints'  tales: 

Those  legends  which,  be  it  confessed 
Did  nearer  bring  to  them  the  sky — 
Did  nearer  woo  it  in  their  hope 
Of  all  that  seers  and  saints  avow — 
Than  Galileo's  telescope 
Can  bid  it  unto  prosing  science  now. 

Clarel  is  by  all  odds  the  most  important  record  we  have  of 
what  was  the  temper  of  Melville's  deeper  thoughts  during  his 
long  metaphysical  period.  Typical  quotations  have  already 
been  made. 

The  most  recurrent  note  of  the  poem  is  a  parched  desire  for 
companionship;  a  craving  for 


362  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

A  brother  that  he  well  might  own 
In  tie  of  friendship. 

Could  /  but  meet 
Some  stranger  of  a  lore  replete, 
Who,  marking  how  my  looks  betray 
The  dumb  thoughts  clogging  here  my  feet 
Would  question  me,  expound  and  prove, 
And  make  my  heart  to  burn  with  love. 


Doubt's  heavy  hand 
Is  set  against  us;  and  his  brand 
Still  warreth  for  his  natural  lord 
King  Common-place." 


Art  thou  the  first  soul  tried  by  doubt  ? 

Shall  prove  the  last?     Go,  live  it  out. 

But  for  thy  fonder  dream  of  love 

In  man  towards  man — the  soul's  caress — 

The  negatives  of  flesh  should  prove 

Analogies  of  non-cordialness 

In  spirit. 


Why  then 

Remaineth  to  me  what?  the  pen? 
Dead  feather  of  ethereal  life! 
Nor  efficacious  much,  save  when 
It  makes  some  fallacy  more  rife. 
My  kin — I  blame  them  not  at  heart — 
Would  have  me  act  some  routine  part. 
Subserving  family,  and  dreams 
Alien  to  me — illusive  schemes. 

This  world  clean  fails  me:  still  I  yearn. 
Me  then  it  surely  does  concern 
Some  other  world  to  find.    But  where? 
In  creed?    I  do  not  find  it  there. 


This  side  the  dark  and  hollow  bound 
Lies  there  no  unexplored  rich  ground? 
Some  other  world:  well,  there's  the  New — 
Ah,  joyless  and  ironic  too ! 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  363 

Ay,  Democracy 

Lops,  lops;  but  where's  her  planted  bed? 
The  future,  what  is  that  to  her 
Who  vaunts  she's  no  inheritor? 
"Pis  in  her  mouth,  not  in  her  heart. 
The  past  she  spurns,  though  'tis  the  past 
From  which  she  gets  her  saving  part — 
That  Good  which  lets  her  evil  last. 


Behold  her  whom  the  panders  crown, 
Harlot  on  horseback,  riding  down 
The  very  Ephesians  who  acclaim 
This  great  Diana  of  ill  fame ! 
Arch  strumpet  of  an  impious  age, 
Upstart  from  ranker  villainage : 
Asia  shall  stop  her  at  the  least 
That  old  inertness  of  the  East. 


But  in  the  New  World  things  make  haste : 
Not  only  men,  the  state  lives  fast — 
Fast  breed  the  pregnant  eggs  and  shells, 
The  slumberous  combustibles 
Sure  to  explode.    'Twill  come,  'twill  come ! 
One  demagogue  can  trouble  much: 
How  of  a  hundred  thousand  such? 


Indeed,  those  germs  one  now  may  view: 

Myriads  playing  pygmy  parts — 

Debased  into  equality: 

Dead  level  of  rank  commonplace: 

An  Anglo-Saxon  China,  see, 

May  on  your  vast  plains  shame  the  race 

In  the  Dark  Ages  of  Democracy. 


Your  arts  advance  in  faith's  decay: 
You  are  but  drilling  the  new  Hun 
Whose  growl  even  now  can  some  dismay; 
Vindictive  is  his  heart  of  hearts. 
He  schools  him  in  your  mines  and  marts 
A  skilled  destroyer. 


364  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Old  ballads  sing 

Fair  Christian  children  crucified 
By  impious  Jews:  you've  heard  the  thing: 
Yes,  fable ;  but  there's  truth  hard  by : 
How  many  Hughs  of  Lincoln,  say, 
Does  Mammon,  in  his  mills,  to-day, 
Crook,  if  he  does  not  crucify? 

The  impieties  of  "Progress''  speak; 
What  say  these,  in  effect  to  God? 
"How  profits  it?    And  who  art  Thou 
That  we  should  serve  Thee?    Of  Thy  ways 
No  knowledge  we  desire;  new  ways 
We  have  found  out,  and  better.    Go — 
Depart  from  us!"— And  if  He  do? 
Is  aught  betwixt  us  and  the  hells  ? 


Against  all  this  stands  Rome's  array: 

Rome  is  the  Protestant  to-day. 

The  Red  Republic  slinging  flame 

In  Europe — she's  your  Scarlet  Dame. 

Rome  stands :  but  who  may  tell  the  end  ? 

Relapse  barbaric  may  impend, 

Dismission  into  ages  blind — 

Moral  dispersion  of  mankind. 

If  Luther's  day  expand  to  Darwin's  year, 

Shall  that  exclude  the  hope — foreclose  the  fear? 


Yea,  ape  and  angel,  strife  and  old  debate, 

The  harps  of  heaven  and  dreary  gongs  of  hell; 

Science  the  feud  can  only  aggravate — 

No  umpire  she  betwixt  the  chimes  and  knell, 

The  running  battle  of  the  star  and  clod 

Shall  run  forever — if  there  is  no  God. 


Then  keep  thy  heart,  though  yet  but  ill  resigned — 
Clarel,  thy  heart,  the  issues  there  but  mind; 
That  like  the  crocus  budding  through  the  snow — 
That  like  a  swimmer  rising  from  the  deep 
That  like  a  burning  secret  which  doth  go 
Even  from  the  bosom  that  would  hoard  and  keep; 
Emerge  thou  mayst  from  the  last  wheeling  sea 
And  prove  that  death  but  routs  life  into  victory. 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  365 

Though  Clarel  is  unconscionably  long,  and  though  there  are 
arid  wastes  strewn  throughout  its  length,  a  patient  reading  is 
rewarded  by  passages  of  beauty,  and  more  frequently  by  pas 
sages  of  astonishing  vigour  and  daring.  And  it  speaks  more 
for  the  orthodoxy  of  America  than  for  her  intellect,  that  Clarel 
—which  reposes  in  the  outer  limbo  of  oblivion — is  about  all 
she  has  to  show,  as  Mr.  Mather  has  observed,  for  the  poetical 
stirrings  of  the  deeper  theological  waters  which  marked  the  age 
of  Matthew  Arnold,  Clough,  Tennyson,  and  Browning.  We 
should  blush  for  our  neglect  of  a  not  unworthy  representative. 

Besides  Battle-Pieces  and  Clarel,  Melville  printed  for  pri 
vate  circulation  two  slender  volumes :  John  Marr  and  Other 
Sailors  (1888)  and  Timoleon  (1891)  :  selections  from  a  larger 
body  of  poetry,  the  remainder  of  which  is  still  preserved  in 
manuscript.  In  these,  the  inspiration  flags  throughout.  Two 
of  the  better  poems  have  already  been  quoted.  John  Marr  was 
dedicated  to  W.  Clark  Russell,  Timoleon  to  Elihu  Vedder. 

In  1886,  according  to  Arthur  Stedman,  Melville  "felt  im 
pelled  to  write  Mr.  Russell  in  regard  to  one  of  his  newly  pub 
lished  novels."  This  was  the  beginning  of  a  correspondence 
between  Russell  and  Melville.  Melville's  letters  are  not  avail 
able.  Russell's  reply  to  Melville's  first  letter  follows : 

"July  21,   1886. 
uMv  DEAR  MR.  HERMAN  MELVILLE: 

"Your  letter  has  given  me  a  very  great  and  singular  pleasure. 
Your  delightful  books  carry  the  imagination  into  a  maritime 
period  so  remote  that,  often  as  you  have  been  in  my  mind,  I 
could  never  satisfy  myself  that  you  were  still  amongst  the 
living.  I  am  glad,  indeed,  to  learn  from  Mr.  Toft  that  you 
are  still  hale  and  hearty,  and  I  do  most  heartily  wish  you  many 
years  yet  of  health  and  vigour. 

"Your  books  I  have  in  the  American  edition.  I  have  Typee, 
Omoo,  Redbum,  and  that  noble  piece,  Moby-Dick.  These  are 
all  I  have  been  able  to  obtain.  There  have  been  many  editions 
of  your  works  in  this  country,  particularly  the  lovely  South 
Sea  sketches;  but  the  editions  are  not  equal  to  those  of  the 
American  publishers.  Your  reputation  here  is  very  great.  It 


366  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

is  hard  to  meet  a  man  whose  opinion  as  a  reader  is  worth 
having  who  does  not  speak  of  your  works  in  such  terms  as  he 
might  hesitate  to  employ,  with  all  his  patriotism,  towards  many 
renowned  English  writers. 

"Dana  is,  indeed,  great.  There  is  nothing  in  literature  more 
remarkable  than  the  impression  produced  by  Dana's  portraiture 
of  the  homely  inner  life  of  a  little  brig's  forecastle. 

"I  beg  that  you  will  accept  my  thanks  for  the  kindly  spirit  in 
which  you  have  read  my  books.  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power 
to  cross  the  Atlantic,  for  you  assuredly  would  be  the  first  whom 
it  would  be  my  happiness  to  visit.  .  .  .  The  condition  of  my 
right  hand  obliges  me  to  dictate  this  to  my  son;  but  painful 
as  it  is  to  me  to  hold  a  pen  I  cannot  suffer  this  letter  to  reach 
the  hands  of  a  man  of  so  admirable  genius  as  Herman  Mel 
ville  without  begging  him  to  believe  me  to  be,  with  my  own 
hand,  his  most  respectful  and  hearty  admirer, 

"W.  CLARK  RUSSELL." 

Elihu  Vedder  and  Melville  never  met  or  corresponded. 
The  acknowledgment  of  the  dedication  came  only  after  Mel 
ville's  death.  "I  may  not  have  been  very  successful  in  a 
worldly  way/'  he  said,  "but  the  knowledge  that  my  art  has 
gained  me  so  many  friends — even  if  unknown  to  me — makes 
ample  amends." 

Schopenhauer  was  enabled  to  preserve  his  disillusions  be 
cause  he  also  preserved  his  income.  If  a  man  is  blessed  with 
a  comfortable  fortune,  then  it  is  easy  for  him  to  lead  a  tran 
quil  and  unpretentious  existence,  sheltered  from  all  intruders. 
But  for  an  unsuccessful  writer  with  a  wife,  four  children,  and 
no  income,  to  throw  down  the  pen  and  retire  from  the  world 
(except  for  a  season  in  California  and  another  in  the  Holy 
Land)  ;  the  secret  of  such  a  feat  should  be  popularised.  The 
secret  transpires  in  the  following  letter  to  Melville  from  his 
father-in-law,  Justice  Shaw. 

"BOSTON,  15  May,  1860. 
"Mv  DEAR  HERMAN, 

"I  am  very  glad  to  learn  from  your  letter  that  you  intend  to 
accept  Thomas'  invitation  to  go  on  his  next  voyage.  I  think 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  867 

it  affords  a  fair  prospect  of  being  a  permanent  benefit  to  your 
health,  and  it  will  afford  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  do  any 
thing  in  my  power  to  aid  your  preparation,  and  make  the  voy 
age  most  agreeable  and  beneficial  to  you. 

"The  prospect  of  your  early  departure  renders  it  proper  and 
necessary  to  bring  to  a  definite  conclusion  the  subject  we  have 
had  a  considerable  time  under  consideration,  a  settlement  of 
the  matter  of  the  Pittsfield  estate,  with  a  view  to  which  you 
handed  me  your  deeds,  when  I  was  in  Pittsfield  last  autumn. 

"You  will  recollect  that  when  you  proposed  to  purchase  a 
house  in  N.  York  I  advanced  to  you  $2000.  and  afterwards, 
when  you  purchased  the  Brewster  place,  I  again  advanced  you 
$3000.  For  these  sums,  as  well  as  for  another  loan  of  $500. 
afterwards,  I  took  your  notes.  This  I  did,  not  because  I  had 
then  any  fixed  determination  to  treat  the  advances  as  debts,  to 
be  certainly  repaid,  but  I  was  in  doubt  at  the  time  in  reference 
to  other  claims  upon  me,  and  how  my  affairs  would  be  ulti 
mately  arranged,  what  I  should  be  able  to  do  by  way  of  pro 
vision  for  my  daughter,  and  I  put  these  advances  upon  the 
footing  of  loans  until  some  future  adjustment. 

"I  always  supposed  that  you  considered  the  two  first  of  the 
above-named  advances  as  having  substantially  gone  into  the 
purchase  of  the  Brewster  farm,  and  that  I  had  some  equitable 
claim  upon  it  as  security.  I  presume  it  was  upon  that  ground 
that  you  once  sent  me  a  mortgage  of  the  estate  prepared  by 
your  brother  Allan.  I  never  put  that  mortgage  on  record  nor 
made  any  use  of  it;  and  if  the  conveyances  are  made,  which 
I  now  propose,  that  mortgage  will  become  superseded  and  ut 
terly  nugatory. 

"What  I  now  propose  is  to  give  up  to  you  the  above  men 
tioned  notes  in  full  consideration  of  your  conveyance  to  me  of 
your  present  homestead,  being  all  the  Brewster  purchase  ex 
cept  what  you  sold  to  Mr.  Willis.  This  being  done  and  the 
estate  vested  in  me,  I  propose  to  execute  a  deed  conveying  the 
same  in  fee  to  Elizabeth.  This  will  vest  the  fee  as  an  estate 
of  inheritance  in  her,  subject  of  course  to  your  rights  as  her 
husband  during  your  life.  If  you  wish  to  know  more  particu 
larly  what  will  be  the  legal  effect  and  operation  of  these  con- 


368  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

veyances  Mr.  Colt  will  explain  it  to  you  fully.  I  have  written 
to  him  and  enclosed  him  a  draft  of  a  deed  for  you  to  execute 
to  me  and  my  deed  executed  to  be  delivered  to  you  and  your 
notes  to  be  surrendered.  I  have  explained  the  whole  matter 
to  Mr.  Colt  and  I  have  full  confidence  in  his  prudence  and 
fidelity.  I  do  not  see  any  advantage  in  giving  the  business  any 
more  notoriety  than  will  arise  from  putting  the  deeds  on 
record. 

"Elizabeth  now  writes  me  that  you  wish  the  note  for  $600., 
given  by  the  town  and  coming  from  the  sale  of  the  Brewster 
place,  that  part  of  it  not  sold  to  Mr.  Willis,  so  placed  that  it 
may  be  applied  as  you  have  heretofore,  in  your  own  mind,  ap 
propriated  it,  for  building  a  new  barn. 

"I  propose  to  treat  this  as  I  did  the  estate  itself :  first  pur 
chase  it  of  you  for  a  full  consideration  and  then  apply  it  to 
Elizabeth's  use.  In  looking  for  a  consideration  for  this  pur 
chase  there  is  the  interest  of  the  above  notes  not  computed  in 
the  consideration  for  the  deed  and  now  amounting  to  several 
thousand  dollars. 

"But  there  is  another  consideration,  respecting  which  I  have 
never  had  any  direct  communication,  I  believe,  but  I  can  see 
no  reason  why  it  should  not  be  now  clearly  understood.  When 
you  went  to  Europe  in  the  fall  of  1856  I  advanced  the  money 
necessary  for  your  outfit  and  the  expenses  of  your  tour.  This 
was  done  through  your  brother  Allan  and  amounted  to  about 
fourteen  or  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  In  my  own  mind,  though 
I  took  no  note  or  obligation  for  it,  I  treated  it  like  the  other 
advances,  to  be  regarded  as  advance  by  way  of  loan  or  a  gift 
according  to  some  future  arrangement.  I  propose  now  to  con 
sider  that  sum  as  a  set  off  against  the  note  of  $600.  and,  as  to 
all  beyond  that,  to  consider  it  cancelled  and  discharged.  This 
will  make  the  note  mine.  At  the  same  time  I  propose  to  ap 
propriate  it  to  its  original  use,  to  build  a  barn,  in  which  case 
it  will  go  to  increase  the  value  of  the  estate  already  Elizabeth's, 
or  should  anything  occur  to  prevent  such  use  of  the  money  I 
shall  appropriate  it  in  some  other  way  to  her  use.  The  effect 
of  this  arrangement  will  be  to  cancel  and  discharge  all  debt 
and  pecuniary  obligation  of  every  description  from  you  to  my- 


F 


.$.   18  do 


MKLVILLE    AS  ARTIST 


/V. 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  369 

self.    You  will  then  leave  home  with  the  conscious  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  you  are  free  from  debt:  that  if  by  a  Provi 
dential  dispensation  you  should  be  prevented  from  ever  re 
turning  to  your  beloved  family,  provision  will  have  been  made 
at  least  for  a  home,  for  your  wife  and  children. 
"Affectionately  and  ever  faithfully 
"Your  sincere  friend 

"LEMUEL  SHAW/' 

After  his  return  from  the  Holy  Land,  Melville  tried  to  eke 
out  the  small  income  from  his  books  and  his  farm  by  lecturing. 
J.  E.  A.  Smith  says:  "Between  1857  and  1861,  a  rage  for 
lyceum  lectures  prevailed  all  over  the  northern  and  western 
states.  In  Pittsfield  the  Burbank  hall,  now  Mead's  carriage 
repository,  was  filled  at  least  once  every  week  to  its  full  ca 
pacity  of  over  a  thousand  seats,  with  eager  and  intelligent 
listeners  to  the  most  brilliant  orators  in  the  country.  Some  of 
the  most  noted  authors,  as  well  as  orators,  were  induced  to 
mount  the  platform  partly  by  the  liberal  pay  which  they  re 
ceived  directly — and  also  for  the  increased  sale  which  it  gave 
their  books.  Among  these  was  Herman  Melville,  who  lec 
tured  in  Burbank  hall,  and  in  Boston,  New  York,  Philadelphia, 
Montreal,  St.  Louis,  San  Francisco  as  well  as  intermediate 
cities  and  towns.  He  did  not  take  very  kindly  to  the  lecture 
platform,  but  had  large  and  well  pleased  audiences." 

If  his  audiences  were  composed  of  people  of  the  jaunty  and 
shallow  provincialism  of  J.  E.  A.  Smith — and  J.  E.  A.  Smith 
is  a  very  fair  product  of  his  country  and  his  time — Melville's 
distaste  for  their  prim,  bland  receptivity  does  not  pass  under 
standing.  The  place  and  date  of  Melville's  lectures,  together 
with  the  "liberal  pay  directly  received"  follows. 

1857-1858 

November  24  Concord,  Mass.  $30.00 

December     2  Boston,  Mass.  40.00 

"           10  Montreal  50.00 

"           30  New  Haven,  Conn.  50.00 


370 


HERMAN  MELVILLE 


January         5 

Auburn,  N.  Y. 

$40.00 

7 

Ithaca,  N.  Y. 

50.00 

10 

Cleveland,  Ohio 

50.00 

22 

Clarksville 

75.00 

Chillicothe,  Ohio 

40.00 

n.  d. 

Cincinnati,  Ohio 

50.00 

Feb.             10 

Charleston,  Mass. 

20.00 

23 

Rochester,  N.  Y. 

50.00 

n.  d. 

New  Bedford,  Mass. 

50.00 

645.00 

Travelling  expenses 

221.30 

423.70 

1858-9 

Dec.    6,  1858 

Yonkers,  N.  Y. 

$30.00 

"     14,      " 

Pittsfield,  Mass. 

50.00 

Jan.  31,   1859 

Boston,  Mass. 

50.00 

Feb.    7,      " 

New  York,  N.  Y. 

55-oo 

{(               O               « 

<$, 

Baltimore,  Md. 

100.00 

"     24,      " 

Chicago,  111. 

50.00 

"  25,   " 

Milwaukee,  Wise. 

50.00 

"   28,    " 

Rockford,  111. 

50.00 

Mar.  2,      " 

Quincy,  111. 

23-50 

"     16,      " 

Lynn,  Mass.  (2  lee) 

60.00 

518.50 

1859-60 

November    7, 

Flushing,  L.  I. 

$30. 

February    14, 

Danvers,  Mass. 

25. 

21, 

Cambridgeport,  Mass. 

55. 

no. 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  371 

For  these  lyceum  gatherings,  Melville  prepared  two  lectures : 
one  on  the  South  Seasf  one  on  Statuary  in  Rome. 

On  December  2,  1857,  in  competition  with  another  Mel 
ville,  a  bareback  rider,  who  at  the  circus  at  Bingo  "nightly  per 
formed  before  the  elite  and  respectability  of  the  city,"  Melville 
lectured  on  Statuary  in  Rome.  On  December  3,  1857,  the 
Boston  Journal  thus  reported  Melville's  lecture : 

"A  large  audience  assembled  last  evening  to  listen  to  the 
author  of  Omoo  and  Typee.  He  began  by  asserting  that  in  the 
realm  of  art  there  was  no  exclusiveness.  Dilettanti  might  ac 
cumulate  their  technical  terms,  but  that  did  not  interfere  with 
the  substantial  enjoyment  of  those  who  did  not  understand 
them.  As  the  beauties  of  nature  could  be  appreciated  without 
a  knowledge  of  botany,  so  art  could  be  enjoyed  without  the 
artist's  skill.  With  this  principle  in  view,  he,  claiming  to  be 
neither  critic  nor  artist,  would  make  some  plain  remarks  on  the 
statuary  of  Rome. 

"As  you  approach  the  city  from  Naples,  you  are  first  struck 
by  the  statues  of  the  Church  St.  John  Lateran.  Here  you  have 
the  sculptured  biographies  of  ancient  celebrities.  The  speaker 
then  vividly  described  the  statues  of  Demosthenes,  Titus  Ves 
pasian,  Socrates,  looking  like  an  Irish  comedian.  Julius  Caesar, 
so  sensible  and  business-like  of  aspect  that  it  might  be  taken 
for  the  bust  of  a  railroad  president;  Seneca,  with  the  visage 
of  a  pawn  broker;  Nero,  the  fast  young  man;  Plato,  with  the 
locks  and  air  of  an  exquisite,  as  if  meditating  on  the  destinies 
of  the  world  under  the  hand  of  a  hair-dresser.  Thus  these 
statues  confessed,  and,  as  it  were,  prattled  to  us  of  much  that 
does  not  appear  in  history  and  the  written  works  of  those  they 
represent.  They  seem  familiar  and  natural  to  us — and  yet 
there  is  about  them  all  a  heroic  tone  peculiar  to  ancient  life. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  is  not  wholly  lost  from  the  world, 
although  the  sense  of  earthly  vanity  inculcated  by  Christianity 
may  have  swallowed  it  up  in  humility. 

"The  lecturer  next  turned  to  the  celebrated  Apollo  Belvedere. 
This  stands  alone  by  itself,  and  the  impression  made  upon  all 
beholders  is  such  as  to  subdue  the  feelings  with  wonder  and 


372  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

awe.  The  speaker  gave  a  very  eloquent  description  of  the  at 
titude  and  the  spirit  of  Apollo.  The  elevating  effect  of  such 
statues  was  exhibited  in  the  influence  they  exerted  upon  the 
mind  of  Milton  during  his  visit  to  Italy. 

"Among  the  most  wonderful  works  of  statuary  is  that  of 
Lucifer  and  his  associates  cast  down  from  heaven.  This  is  in 
Padua,  and  contains  three-score  figures  cut  out  of  solid  rock. 
The  variety  and  power  of  the  group  cannot  be  surpassed.  The 
Venus  de  Medici,  as  compared  with  the  Apollo,  was  lovely 
and  not  divine.  Mr.  Melville  said  he  once  surprised  a  native 
maiden  in  the  precise  attitude  of  the  Venus.  He  then  passed 
to  a  rapid  review  of  the  Laocoon  and  other  celebrated  sculp 
tures,  to  show  the  human  feeling  and  genius  of  the  ancient  ar 
tists.  None  but  a  gentle  heart  could  have  conceived  the  idea  of 
the  Dying  Gladiator.  The  sculptured  monuments  of  the  early 
Christians,  in  the  vaults  of  the  Vatican,  show  the  joyous  tri 
umph  of  the  new  religion — quite  unlike  the  sombre  momentoes 
of  modern  times. 

"The  lecturer  then  eloquently  sketched  the  exterior  of  the 
Vatican.  But  nearly  the  whole  of  Rome  was  a  Vatican — every 
where  were  fallen  columns  and  sculptured  fragments.  Most 
of  these,  it  is  true,  were  works  of  Greek  artists.  And  yet  the 
grand  spirit  of  Roman  life  inspired  them.  Passing  from  these 
ancient  sculptures,  tribute  was  paid  to  the  colossal  works  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini  and  Michael  Angelo.  He  regretted  that 
the  time  would  not  allow  him  to  speak  of  the  scenery  and 
surroundings  of  the  Roman  sculptures — the  old  Coliseum,  the, 
gardens,  the  Forum,  and  the  villas  in  the  environs.  He  sketched 
some  of  the  most  memorable  of  the  latter,  and  the  best  works 
they  contain. 

"He  concluded  by  summing  up  the  obvious  teachings  of 
these  deathless  marbles.  The  lecture  was  quite  interesting  to 
those  of  artistic  tastes,  but  we  fancy  the  larger  part  of  the 
audience  would  have  preferred  something  more  modern  and 
personal." 

The  report  of  Melville's  other  lecture  is  quoted  from  the 
Boston  Journal,  January  31,  1859. 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  373 

"At  the  Tremont  Temple  last  evening,  Herman  Melville, 
Esq.,  the  celebrated  author  and  adventurer,  delivered  the 
ninth  lecture  of  the  course  under  the  auspices  of  the  Mechanic 
Apprentices'  Association.  Subject — The  South  Seas/  The 
audience  was  not  large,  but  about  equal  to  the  usual  attend 
ance  at  this  and  the  Mercantile  course. 

"On  being  introduced  to  the  audience,  Mr.  Melville  said 
that  the  field  of  his  subject  was  large,  and  he  should  not  be 
expected  to  go  over  it  all :  nor  should  he  be  expected  to  read 
again  what  had  long  been  in  print,  touching  his  own  incidental 
adventures  in  Polynesia.  But  he  proposed  to  view  the  subject 
in  a  general  manner,  in  a  random  way,  with  here  and  there 
an  incident  by  way  of  illustration. 

"He  first  referred  to  the  title  of  the  lecture,  and  the  origin 
and  date  of  the  name  'South  Seas'  which  was  older  than  the 
name  'Pacific,'  to  which  preference  is  usually  given  now.  The 
voyages  of  early  navigators  into  the  South  Seas,  and  espe 
cially  the  Balboa,  commander  of  the  petty  port  of  Darien,  from 
whence  he  had  taken  formal  possession  of  all  the  South  Seas, 
and  all  lands  and  kingdoms  therein,  in  behalf  of  his  masters, 
the  King  of  Castile  and  Leon,  were  noticed  by  the  lecturer. 

"Magellan  was  the  man  who,  after  the  first  hazardous  and 
tortuous  passage  through  the  straits  which  now  bear  his  name, 
gave  the  peaceful  ocean  to  which  he  came  out  the  name  of 
'Pacific.'  It  was  California,  said  the  lecturer,  which  first 
made  the  Pacific  shores  the  home  of  the  Anglo-Saxons.  Even 
now,  there  were  many  places  in  this  wide  waste  of  waters 
which  were  not  found  upon  the  charts.  But  what  was  known, 
and  well  known,  afforded  an  abundant  theme  for  a  lecture. 
The  fish  found  in  that  water  would  furnish  an  abundant  sub 
ject,  of  which  he  named  the  sword  fish,  a  different  fish  from 
that  of  the  same  name  found  in  our  northern  latitudes — and 
the  devil  fish,  over  which  a  mystery  hangs,  like  that  over  the 
sea-serpent  in  northern  waters.  The  birds,  also,  in  those  lati 
tudes,  might  occupy  a  full  hour.  The  lecturer  said  he  won 
dered  that  the  renowned  Agassiz  did  not  pack  his  carpet  bag 
and  betake  himself  to  Nantucket,  and  from  thence  to  the  South 
Seas,  than  which  he  could  find  no  richer  field. 


374  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

"Full  of  interest  also  were  the  fisheries  of  the  South  Seas 
and  the  life  of  the  whaling  crews  on  the  broad  waters,  of  vis 
iting  lands.  Seldom,  if  ever,  touched  by  any  but  themselves, 
was  covered  over  with  a  charm  of  novelty.  Again  the  islands 
were  an  interesting  study.  Why,  asked  the  lecturer,  do  north 
ern  Englishmen,  who  own  large  yachts,  with  which  they  sail 
up  the  Mediterranean,  why  don't  they  go  yachting  in  the  South 
Seas?  The  white  race  have  a  very  bad  reputation  among  the 
Polynesians.  With  few  exceptions  they  were  considered  the 
most  bloodthirsty,  atrocious  and  diabolical  race  in  the  world. 
But  there  were  no  dangers  to  voyagers  if  they  treated  the  na 
tives  with  common  kindness. 

"In  the  Pacific  there  were  yet  unknown  and  unvisited  isles. 
There  were  many  places  where  a  man  might  make  himself  a 
sylvan  retreat  and  for  years,  at  least,  live  as  much  removed 
from  Christendom  as  if  in  another  world. 

"The  lecturer  described  an  interview  he  had  with  a  poetical 
young  man  who  called  upon  him  to  get  his  opinion  upon  what 
would  be  the  prospects  of  a  number,  say  four  score,  of  dis 
ciples  of  Fourier  to  settle  in  the  valley  of  Typee.  He  had  not 
encouraged  the  scheme,  having  too  much  regard  for  his  old 
friends,  the  Polynesians.  The  Mormons  had  also  such  a 
scheme  in  view — to  discover  a  large  island  in  the  Pacific,  upon 
which  they  could  increase  and  multiply.  The  Polynesians 
themselves  have  ideas  of  the  same  nature.  Every  one  has 
heard  of  the  voyage  of  Ponce  de  Leon  to  find  the  fountain  of 
perpetual  youth.  Equally  poetical,  and  more  unfamiliar,  was 
the  adventure  of  Cama  Pecar,  who  set  sail  alone  from  Hawaii 
to  find  the  fount  of  eternal  joy,  which  was  supposed  to  spring 
up  in  some  distant  island  where  the  people  lived  in  perpetual 
joy  and  youth.  Like  all  who  go  to  Paradise,  he  was  never 
heard  from  again.  A  tranquil  scene  from  the  South  Seas 
was  remembered  by  the  lecturer.  In  a  ship  from  a  port  of  the 
Pacific  coast  he  had  sailed  five  months,  and  came  upon  an 
island  where  the  natives  lived  in  a  state  of  total  laziness.  Here 
they  found  a  white  man  who  was  a  permanent  inhabitant,  and 
comfortably  settled  with  three  wives,  who,  however,  failed  to 
keep  his  wardrobe  in  good  order. 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  375 

'Wonderful  tales  were  told  of  the  adventures  in  the  South 
Seas,  and  the  lecturer  said  that  he  believed  that  the  books 
Typee  and  Omoo  gave  scarcely  a  full  idea  of  them,  except  that 
part  which  tells  of  the  long  captivity  in  the  valley  of  Typee. 
He  had  seen  many  of  these  story  tellers  of  adventures  in  the 
South  Seas  with  good  vouchers  of  their  tales  in  the  shape  of 
tattooing.  A  full  and  interesting  description  of  the  process  of 
tattooing  with  its  various  styles  was  given.  Tattooing  was 
sometimes,  like  dress,  an  index  of  character,  and  worn  as  an 
ornament  which  would  never  wear  off  and  could  not  be  pawned, 
lost  or  stolen.  The  lecturer  had  successfully  combated  all 
attempts  to  naturalise  him  by  marks  as  from  a  gridiron,  on 
his  face,  for  which  he  thanked  God. 

"A  brief  notice  was  made  of  the  islands  of  the  Pacific,  where 
the  Anglo-Saxons  had  settled,  and  civilised  the  people,  and  the 
lecturer  had  been  disgusted,  and  threw  down  a  paper  published 
in  the  Sandwich  Islands,  which  suggested  the  propriety  of  not 
having  the  native  language  taught  in  the  common  schools. 

"In  conclusion,  the  lecturer  spoke  of  the  desire  of  the  na 
tives  of  Georges  Island  to  be  annexed  to  the  United  States. 
He  was  sorry  to  see  it,  and,  as  a  friend  of  humanity,  and  espe 
cially  as  a  friend  of  the  South  Sea  Islanders,  he  should  pray, 
and  call  upon  all  Christians  to  pray  with  him,  that  the  Poly 
nesians  might  be  delivered  from  all  foreign  and  contaminat 
ing  influences. 

"The  lecture  gave  the  most  ample  satisfaction,  and  was  fre 
quently  applauded." 

Melville  cut  short  his  third  year  of  lecturing  to  make  the 
trip  to  California  with  his  brother.  Upon  his  return,  he 
again  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  be  appointed  to  a  con- 
sularship.  Such  a  mission  took  him  to  Washington  in  1861. 
This  trip  was  chiefly  notable  because  of  the  meeting  of  Mel 
ville  and  Lincoln.  Melville  recounted  the  experience  in  a  let 
ter  to  his  wife :  "The  night  previous  to  this  I  was  at  the  second 
levee  at  the  White  House.  There  was  a  great  crowd  and  a 
brilliant  scene — ladies  in  full  dress  by  the  hundreds — a  steady 


376  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

stream  of  two-and-two's  wound  through  the  apartments  shak 
ing  hands  with  Old  Abe  and  immediately  passing  on.  This 
continued  without  cessation  for  an  hour  and  a  half.  Of  course 
I  was  one  of  the  shakers.  Old  Abe  is  much  better  looking 
than  I  expected  and  younger  looking.  He  shook  hands  like 
a  good  fellow — working  hard  at  it  like  a  man  sawing  wood  at 
so  much  per  cord." 

Melville  struggled  on  for  two  more  years  at  Pittsfield,  and  in 
October,  1863,  moved  with  his  family  to  104  East  26th  Street, 
New  York,  where  he  spent  the  remaining  years  of  his  life. 
His  house  in  New  York  he  bought  from  his  brother  Allan, 
giving  $7,750  (covered  by  mortgages  and  in  time  paid  for  by 
legacies  of  his  wife)  and  the  Arrowhead  place,  valued  at 
$3,000. 

The  last  years  in  Pittsfield  and  the  early  years  in  New  York 
were,  in  financial  hardship,  perhaps  the  darkest  in  Melville's 
life.  He  was  in  ill  health,  and  except  for  the  pittance  from 
his  books  he  was  without  income.  His  lectures  were  a  des 
perate  if  not  lucrative  measure.  But  for  the  generosity  of 
his  wife's  father,  he  would  have  been  in  destitution. 

On  December  5,  1866,  he  was  appointed  Inspector  of  Cus 
toms  in  New  York — a  post  he  held  until  January  i,  1886. 
He  was  sixty-seven  years  old  when  he  resigned.  His  wife 
had  come  into  an  inheritance  that  allowed  him  an  ultimate 
serenity  in  his  closing  years. 

R.  H.  Stoddard,  in  his  Recollections,  thus  speaks  of  Mel 
ville  : 

"My  good  friend  Benedict  sent  me,  one  gloomy  November 
forenoon,  this  curt  announcement  of  a  new  appointment  in 
Herman  Melville :  'He  seems  a  good  fellow,  Dick,  and  says 
he  knows  you,  though  perhaps  he  doesn't,  but  anyhow  be  kind 
to  him  if  this  infernal  weather  will  let  you  be  so  to  anybody.' 
I  bowed  to  the  gentleman  who  handed  the  note  to  me,  in  whom 
I  recognised  a  famous  writer  whom  I  had  met  some  twenty- 
five  years  before;  no  American  writer  was  more  widely  known 
in  the  late  forties  and  early  fifties  in  his  own  country  and  in 
England  than  Melville,  who  in  his  earlier  books,  Typee,  Omoo, 


MKLVII.LK  S    CHILDREN 

Malcolm,  Francos,  Elizabeth,  Stamvix 

(From    left    to    right) 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  377 

Mardi,  and  White  Jacket,  had  made  himself  the  prose  poet  of 
the  strange  islands  and  peoples  of  the  South  Seas. 

"Whether  any  of  Melville's  readers  understood  the  real  drift 
of  his  mind,  or  whether  he  understood  it  himself,  has  often 
puzzled  me.  Next  to  Emerson  he  was  the  American  mystic. 
He  was  more  than  that,  however,  he  was  one  of  our  great  un 
recognised  poets,  as  he  manifested  in  his  version  of  'Sheridan's 
Ride/  which  begins  as  all  students  of  our  serious  war  poetry 
ought  to  know :  'Shoe  the  steed  with  silver  that  bore  him  to 
the  fray.'  Melville's  official  duty  during  the  last  years  of 
my  Custom-House  life  confined  him  to  the  foot  of  Gansevoort 
Street,  North  River,  and  on  a  report  that  he  might  be  changed 
to  some  district  on  the  East  River,  he  asked  me  to  prevent  the 
change,  and  Benedict  said  to  me,  'He  shan't  be  moved,'  and 
he  was  not;  and  years  later,  on  a  second  report  of  the  same 
nature  reaching  him,  I  saw  Benedict  again,  who  declared  with 
a  profane  expletive,  'He  shall  stay  there.'  And  if  he  had  not 
died  about  a  dozen  years  ago  he  would  probably  be  there  to 
day,  at  the  foot  of  Gansevoort  Street." 

It  is  interesting  that  a  man  of  the  intellect  of  R.  H.  Stod- 
dard  should  have  found  Melville's  mind  such  a  shadowed 
hieroglyph.  With  Stoddard  so  perplexed,  it  is  less  difficult  to 
understand  Melville's  preference  for  solitude. 

In  his  copy  of  Schopenhauer,  Melville  underlined  the  phrase 
— "this  hellish  society  of  men;"  and  he  vigorously  underscored 
the  aphorism :  "When  two  or  three  are  gathered  together,  the 
devil  is  among  them."  Melville  occupied  himself  with  his 
books,  with  collecting  etchings,  with  solitary  walks;  and  for 
companionship  he  was  satisfied  with  the  society  of  his  grand 
children.  His  grand-daughter,  Mrs.  Eleanor  Melville  Met- 
calf,  thus  records  her  recollections  of  such  association: 

"I  was  not  yet  ten  years  old  when  my  grandfather  died.  To 
put  aside  all  later  impressions  gathered  from  those  who  knew 
him  longer  and  coloured  by  their  personal  reactions,  all  im 
pressions  made  by  subsequent  reading  of  his  books,  results  in 
a  series  of  childish  recollections,  vivid  homely  scenes  wherein 


378  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

he  formed  a  palpable  background  for  my  own  interested  ac 
tivities. 

"Setting  forth  on  a  bright  spring  afternoon  for  a  trip  to 
Central  Park,  the  Mecca  of  most  of  our  pilgrimages,  he  made 
a  brave  and  striking  figure  as  he  walked  erect,  head  thrown 
back,  cane  in  hand,  inconspicuously  dressed  in  a  dark  blue 
suit  and  a  soft  black  felt  hat.  For  myself,  I  skipped  gaily  be 
side  him,  anticipating  the  long  jogging  ride  in  the  horse  cars, 
the  goats  and  shanty-topped  granite  of  the  upper  reaches  of  our 
journey,  the  broad  walks  of  the  park,  where  the  joy  of  all 
existence  was  best  expressed  by  running  down  the  hills,  head 
back,  skirts  flying  in  the  wind.  He  would  follow  more  slowly 
and  call  Took  out,  or  the  "cop"  may  catch  you1/  I  always 
thought  he  used  funny  words :  'cop'  was  surely  a  jollier  word 
than  'policeman/ 

"We  never  came  in  from  a  trip  of  this  kind,  nor  indeed 
from  any  walk,  but  we  stopped  in  the  front  hall  under  a  col 
oured  engraving  of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  its  still  blue  dotted 
with  tiny  white  sails.  He  would  point  to  them  with  his  cane 
and  say,  'See  the  little  boats  sailing  hither  and  thither/ 
'Hither  and  thither' — more  funny  words,  thought  I,  at  the 
same  time  a  little  awed  by  something  far  away  in  the  tone  of 
voice. 

"I  remember  mornings  when  even  sugar  on  the  oatmeal  was 
not  enough  to  tempt  me  to  finish  the  last  mouthful.  It  would 
be  spring  in  the  back  yard  too,  and  a  tin  cup  full  of  little 
stones  picked  out  of  the  garden  meant  a  penny  from  my  grand 
mother.  He  would  say  in  a  warning  whisper,  'Jack  Smoke 
will  come  down  the  chimney  and  take  what  you  leave !'  That 
was  another  matter.  The  oatmeal  was  laughingly  finished  and 
the  yard  gained.  Across  the  back  parlour  and  main  hall  up 
stairs  ran  a  narrow  iron-trimmed  porch,  furnished  with  Wind 
sor  and  folding  canvas  chairs.  There  he  would  sit  with  a  pipe 
and  his  most  constant  c  mpanion — his  cane,  and  watch  my 
busy  activity  below.  Against  the  wall  of  the  porch  hung  a 
match  holder,  more  for  ornament  than  utility,  it  seems.  It 
was  a  gay  red  and  blue  china  butterfly.  Invariably  he  looked 
to  see  if  it  had  flown  away  since  we  were  there  last. 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  379 

"Once  in  a  long  while  his  interest  in  his  grandchildren  led 
him  to  cross  the  river  and  take  the  suburban  train  to  East 
Orange,  where  we  lived.  He  must  have  been  an  impressive 
figure,  sitting  silently  on  the  piazza,  of  our  little  house,  while 
my  sister  and  I  pranced  by  with  a  neighbour's  boy  and  his 
express  wagon,  filled  with  a  satisfied  sense  of  the  strength 
and  accomplishment  of  our  years.  When  he  had  had  enough 
of  such  exhibitions,  he  would  suddenly  rise  and  take  the  next 
train  back  to  Hoboken. 

"Chiefly  do  I  think  of  him  connected  with  different  parts  of 
the  26th  Street  house. 

"His  own  room  was  a  place  of  mystery  and  awe  to  me; 
there  I  never  ventured  unless  invited  by  him.  It  looked  bleakly 
north.  The  great  mahogany  desk,  heavily  bearing  up  four 
shelves  of  dull  gilt  and  leather  books;  the  high  dim  book-case, 
topped  by  strange  plaster  heads  that  peered  along  the  ceiling 
level,  or  bent  down,  searching  blindly  with  sightless  balls;  the 
small  black  iron  bed,  covered  with  dark  cretonne;  the  narrow 
iron  grate;  the  wide  table  in  the  alcove,  piled  with  papers  I 
would  not  dream  of  touching — these  made  a  room  even  more 
to  be  fled  than  the  back  parlour,  by  whose  door  I  always  ran 
to  escape  the  following  eyes  of  his  portrait,  which  hung  there 
in  a  half  light.  Yet  lo,  the  paper-piled  table  also  held  a  little 
bag  of  figs,  and  one  of  the  pieces  of  sweet  stickiness  was  for 
me.  Tittery-Eye'  he  called  me,  and  awe  melted  into  glee, 
as  I  skipped  away  to  my  grandmother's  room,  which  ad 
joined. 

"That  was  a  very  different  place — sunny,  comfortable  and 
familiar,  with  a  sewing  machine  and  a  white  bed  like  other 
peoples'  In  the  corner  stood  a  big  arm  chair,  where  he  always 
sat  when  he  left  the  recesses  of  his  own  dark  privacy.  I  used 
to  climb  on  his  knee,  while  he  told  me  wild  tales  of  cannibals 
and  tropic  isles.  Little  did  I  then  know  that  he  was  reliving  his 
own  past.  We  came  nearest  intimacy  at  these  times,  and  part 
of  the  fun  was  to  put  my  hands  in  his  thick  beard  and  squeeze 
it  hard.  It  was  no  soft  silken  beard,  but  tight  curled  like  the 
horse  hair  breaking  out  of  old  upholstered  chairs,  firm  and 
wiry  to  the  grasp,  and  squarely  chopped. 


380  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

"Sad  it  is  that  he  felt  his  grandchildren  would  turn  against 
him  as  they  grew  older.  He  used  to  forebode  as  much.  As 
it  is,  I  have  nothing  but  a  remembrance  of  glorious  fun,  mixed 
with  a  childish  awe,  as  of  some  one  who  knew  far  and  strange 
things." 

As  the  last  meed  of  glory,  Melville  received  this  flattering 
letter : 

"12  Lucknow  Terrace, 
"HALIFAX,  N.  S. 
Nov.  21,  1889. 
"DEAR  SIR  : 

"Although  a  stranger,  I  take  the  liberty  of  addressing  you 
on  the  ground  of  my  ardent  admiration  for  your  works.  For 
a  number  of  years  I  have  read  and  reread  Moby-Dick  with 
increasing  pleasure  in  every  perusal :  and  with  this  study,  the 
conviction  has  grown  up  that  the  unique  merits  of  that  book 
have  never  received  due  recognition.  I  have  been  a  student 
for  ten  years  and  have  dabbled  in  literature  more  or  less  my 
self.  And  now  I  find  myself  in  a  position  which  enables  me 
to  give  myself  to  literature  as  a  life-work.  I  am  anxious  to 
set  the  merits  of  your  books  before  the  public  and  to  that  end, 
I  beg  the  honour  of  corresponding  with  you.  It  would  be  of 
great  assistance  to  me,  if  I  could  gather  some  particulars  of 
your  life  and  literary  methods  from  you,  other  than  given  in 
such  books  as  Duyckinck's  dictionary.  In  the  matter  of  style, 
apart  from  the  matter  altogether  I  consider  your  books,  espe 
cially  the  earlier  ones,  the  most  thoroughly  New  World  prod 
uct  in  all  American  literature. 

"Hoping  that  I  am  not  asking  too  much,  I  remain, 
"Yours  most  respectfully, 

"ARCHD.  MACMEEHAN,  PH.D. 
"Munro  Professor  of  English  at  Dalhousie  University." 

Melville  replied: 

"104  E.  26th  St. 
"DEAR  SIR  : 

"I  beg  you  to  overlook  my  delay  in  acknowledging  yours  of 
the  1 2th  ult.  It  was  unavoidable. 


THE  LONG  QUIETUS  381 

"Your  note  gave  me  pleasure,  as  how  should  it  not,  written 
in  such  a  spirit. 

"But  you  do  not  know,  perhaps,  that  I  have  entered  my  8th 
decade.  After  20  years  nearly,  as  an  outdoor  custom  house 
officer,  I  have  lately  come  into  possession  of  unobstructed 
leisure,  but  only  just  as,  in  the  course  of  nature,  my  vigour 
sensibly  declines.  What  little  of  it  is  left  I  husband  for  cer 
tain  matters  as  yet  incomplete,  and  which  indeed  may  never  be 
completed. 

"I  appreciate,  quite  as  much  as  you  would  have  me,  your 
friendly  good  will  and  shrink  from  any  appearance  to  the  con 
trary. 

'Trusting  that  you  will  take  all  this,  &  what  it  implies,  in 
the  same  spirit  that  prompts  it,  I  am, 

"Very  truly  yours, 

"HERMAN  MELVILLE. 
"To 

"Professor  MacMeehan, 
"Dec.  5,  '89." 

Melville  was  using  his  "unobstructed  leisure"  in  a  return 
to  the  writing  of  prose.  Ten  prose  sketches  and  a  novel  were 
the  result.  But  the  result  is  not  distinguished.  The  novel, 
Billy  Budd,  is  built  around  the  character  of  Jack  Chase,  the 
"Handsome  Sailor."  In  the  character  of  Billy  Budd,  Mel 
ville  attempts  to  portray  the  native  purity  and  nobility  of  the 
uncorrupted  man.  Melville  spends  elaborate  pains  in  analys 
ing  "the  mystery  of  iniquity,"  and  in  celebrating  by  contrast 
the  god-like  beauty  of  body  and  spirit  of  his  hero.  Billy  Budd, 
by  his  heroic  guilelessness  is,  like  an  angel  of  vengeance,  pre 
cipitated  into  manslaughter ;  and  for  his  very  righteousness  he 
is  hanged.  Billy  Budd,  finished  within  a  few  months  before 
the  end  of  Melville's  life,  would  seem  to  teach  that  though  the 
wages  of  sin  is  death,  that  sinners  and  saints  alike  toil  for  a 
common  hire.  In  Billy  Budd  the  orphic  sententiousness  is 
gone,  it  is  true.  But  gone  also  is  the  brisk  lucidity,  the  sparkle, 
the  verve.  Only  the  disillusion  abided  with  him  to  the  last. 

Melville  died  at  104  East  26th  Street,  New  York,  on  Mon- 


382  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

day,  September  28,  1891.  His  funeral  was  attended  by  his 
wife  and  his  two  daughters — all  of  his  immediate  family  that 
survived  him — and  a  meagre  scattering  of  relatives  and  family 
friends.  The  man  who  had  created  Moby-Dick  died  an  obscure 
and  elderly  private  citizen.  He  had  in  early  manhood  prayed 
that  if  indeed  his  soul  missed  its  haven,  that  his  might,  at  least, 
be  an  utter  wreck.  "All  Fame  is  patronage,"  he  had  once 
written;  "let  me  be  infamous."  But  as  if  in  contempt  even 
for  this  preference,  he  had,  during  the  last  half  of  his  life, 
cruised  off  and  away  upon  boundless  and  uncharted  waters; 
and  in  the  end  he  sank  down  into  death,  without  a  ripple  of 
renown. 

"Oh,  what  quenchless  feud  is  this,  that  Time  hath  with  the 
sons  of  Men!" 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Herman  Melville's  Sea  Tales.  4  Volumes.  Edited  by  Arthur  Sted- 
man.  New  York,  1892,  1896;  Boston,  1900,  1910,  1919. 

Typee  (with  a  biographical  and  critical  introduction  by 

the  editor). 
Omoo. 
Moby-Dick. 
White-Jacket. 

Typee :  a  Peep  at  Polynesian  Life.  During  a  Four  Months'  Residence 
in  a  Valley  of  the  Marquesas.  .  .  .  New  York,  1846. 

A  Four  Months'  Residence  among  the  Natives  of  a  Valley  of  the 
Marquesas  Islands;  or,  a  Peep  at  Polynesian  Life.  .  .  .  Lori- 
don,  1846,  1847,  1855,  1861. 

Typee:  a  Peep  at  Polynesian  Life.  .  .  .  Revised  edition,  with  a 
Sequel,  The  Story  of  Toby.  .  .  .  New  York,  1846,  1847,  ^49, 
1855,  1857,  1865,  1871.  London,  1892,  1893  (ed.  H.  S.  Salt), 
1898,  1899.  Boston,  1902  (ed.  William  P.  Trent).  London, 

1903  (ed.  William  P.  Trent).    London  and  New  York,  1904 
(ed.  W.  Clark  Russell)  ;   1907   (ed.  Ernest  Rhys).     London 
1910;  another  edition  1910  (ed.  W.  Clark  Russell).    New  York, 
1911  (ed.  W.  Clark  Russell)  ;  1920  (ed.  A.  L.  Sterling).    New 
York  and  London,  1921  (ed.  Ernest  Rhys). 

Translated  into  German  by  R.  Garrique,  Leipzig,   1846;  into 
Dutch,  Haarlem,   1847. 

Omoo:  a  Narrative  of  Adventures  in  the  South  Seas.  .  .  .  New  York, 
1847.  (five  editions  the  same  year).  London,  1847,  1849.  New 
York  and  London,  1855.  London,  1861.  New  York,  1863,  I868. 
London,  1892,  1893  (ed.  H.  S.  Salt).  London  and  New  York, 

1904  (ed.  W.  Clark  Russell)  ;  1908   (ed.  Ernest  Rhys)  ;  1911 
(ed.  W.  Clark  Russell);  1921  (ed.  Ernest  Rhys). 

Translated  into  German  by  F.  Gerstacker,  Leipzig,  1847. 

Mardi:  and  a  Voyage  Thither.  .  .  .  New  York,  1849  (2  volumes). 
London,  1849  (3  volumes).  New  York,  1855,  1864. 

385 


386  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Redburn:  His  First  Voyage.  Being  the  Sailor-Boy  Confessions  and 
Reminiscences  of  the  Son-of-a-Gentleman,  in  the  Merchant 
Service.  .  .  .  New  York,  1849.  London,  1849  (2  volumes). 
New  York,  1855,  1863. 

Translated  into  German  by  L.  Marezoll,  Grimma,  1850. 

White-Jacket:  or,  The  World  in  a  Man-of-War.  .  .  .  New  York, 
1850.  London,  1850  (2  volumes).  New  York  and  London, 
1855.  London,  1892,  1893,  1901. 

Moby-Dick;  or,  the  Whale.  .  .  .  New  York,  1851. 
The  Whale.  .  .  .  London,  1851,  1853  (3  volumes). 

Moby-Dick;  or,  the  Whale.  .  .  .  New  York,  1863.  London,  1901 
(ed.  L.  Becke).  London  and  New  York,  1907  (ed.  Ernest 
Rhys).  London,  1912;  1920  (ed.  Violet  Maynell).  London 
and  New  York,  1921  (ed.  Ernest  Rhys).  The  editions  since 
1892  have  borne  the  title  Moby-Dick;  (or)  the  (Great)  White 
Whale. 

Pierre:  or  The  Ambiguities.  .  .  .  New  York,  1852,  1855. 

Israel  Potter:  His  Fifty  Years  of  Exile.  .  .  .  New  York,  1855  (three 
editions  in  the  same  year).  London,  1855,  1861.  (The  book 
appeared  serially  in  Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine,  July,  1854- 
March,  1855.  it  was  pirated  at  Philadelphia,  n.  d.  (entered 
1865),  as  The  Refugee,  with  the  original  dedication  and  table 
of  contents  omitted). 

The  Piazza.  Tales.  .  .  .  New  York,  1856.  London,  1856.  (Contains: 
The  Piazza;  Bartleby;  Benito  Cereno;  The  Lightning-Rod 
Man;  The  Encantadas;  The  Bell-Tower). 

The  Confidence-Man:  His  Masquerade.  .  .  .  New  York,  1857.  Lon 
don,  1857. 

Battle-Pieces  and  Aspects  of  the  War.  .  .  .  New  York,  1866. 

Clarel:  a  Poem  and  Pilgrimage  in  the  Holy  Land.  .  .  .  New  York, 
1878. 

John  Marr  and  Other  Sailors.  .  .  .  New  York,  1888.  (Privately 
printed). 

Timoleon,  etc.    New  York,  1891.     (Privately  printed). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  387 


CONTRIBUTIONS    TO    MAGAZINES,    ETC. 

Fragments  from  a  Writing  Desk.    The  Democratic  Press  and  Lan- 
singburgh  Advertiser,  4  May;  18  May;  1849. 

Hawthorne  and  His  Mosses,  By  a  Virginian  Spending  a  July  in  Ver 
mont.    Literary  World.    17  Aug.;  24  Aug.;  1850. 

The  Town-Ho's  Story.      (Ch.  54  of   Moby-Dick.)     Harper's  New 
Monthly  Magazine.    Oct.,  1851. 

A  Memorial  to  James  Fenimore  Cooper.     Discourses  and  tributes  by 
Bryant,  Bancroft,  Irving,  Melville,  etc.,  etc.    New  York,  1852. 

Bartleby,  the  Scrivener.    A  story  of  Wall-Street.    Putnam's  Monthly 
Magazine.     Nov.-Dec.,  1853. 

Cock-a-Doodle-Doo !   or,  The  Crowing  of  the  Cock  of  Benentano. 
Harper's  New  Monthly  Magazine.    Dec.,  1853. 

The   Encantadas,   or   Enchanted   Isles,   by    Salvator   R.   Tarnmoor. 
Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine.    March-May,  1854. 

The  Lightning-Rod  Man.    Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine.    Aug.,  1854. 

Poor  Man's  Pudding  and  Rich  Man's  Crumbs.   Harper's  New  Monthly 
Magazine.    June,  1854. 

Happy  Failure.     A   Story  of  the   River   Hudson.     Harper's  New 
Monthly  Magazine.     July,  1854. 

The  Fiddler.    Harper's  New  Monthly  Magazine.    Sept.,  1854. 

Paradise  of  Bachelors  and  Tartarus  of  Maids.   Harper's  New  Monthly 
Magazine.    April,  1855. 

The  Bell-Tower.    Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine.    Aug.,  1855. 
Benito  Cereno.    Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine.     Oct.-Dec.,  1855* 
Jimmy  Rose.    Harper's  New  Monthly  Magazine.    Nov.,  1855. 
The  'Gees.    Harper's  New  Monthly  Magazine.    March,  1856. 
I  and  My  Chimney.     Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine.    March,  1856. 

The  Apple-Tree  Table:  or,  Original  Spiritual  Manifestations.     Put 
nam's  Monthly  Magazine.    May,  1856. 


388  HERMAN  MELVILLE 

The  March  to  the  Sea  (poem).  Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine.  Feb., 
1856. 

The  Cumberland  (poem).  Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine.  March, 
1866. 

Philip  (poem).    Putnam's  Monthly  Magazine.    April,  1866. 
Chattanooga  (poem).    Harper's  New  Monthly  Magazine.    June,  1866. 

Gettysburg:  July,  1863  (poem).  Harper's  New  Monthly's  Magazine. 
July,  1866. 

The  History  of  Pittsfield,  Mass.,  Compiled  and  written,  under  the 
general  direction  of  a  committee,  by  J.  E.  A.  Smith,  Pittsfield, 
1876.  (The  account  of  Major  Thomas  Melville,  pp.  399-400, 
was  written  by  Melville.) 


INDEX  OF  NAMES 


INDEX  OF  NAMES 


Abbott,  Willis  J.,  84,  135,  144. 

Abernethy,  John,  40. 

Acushnet,  The,  127,  129,  130,  133, 
134,  145,  147,  151,  152,  154, 
1 60,  162,  164,  165,  1 66,  167, 
168,  169,  191,  193,  194,  195, 

197,    198,    199,    200,    202,    2 1 6. 

Adams,  C.  F.,  78. 

Adler,    Dr.,   285,    287,   288,   289, 

291,  292,  293,  294,  298. 
Ahab,    Captain,   25,   26,   32,    133, 

332. 

Akenside,  Dr.  Mark,  57,  61,  114. 
Albany,  34,  35,  36,  56,  63,  64,  65, 

66,  68,  69,  70,  112,  113,  132, 

205,  251,  252,  271. 
Albany  Academy,  70,  71,  121. 
Alcott,  Amos  Bronson,  132. 
Ames,  Nathaniel,  79,  87. 
Amherst,  257. 
Angew,  Mary,  304. 
Annatoo,  275. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  365. 
Arnold,  Dr.  Thomas,  44,  79. 
Arrowhead,  47,  306,  309,  310,  311, 

346,  351,  352,  376. 
Artemise,  The,  192,  193. 

Balboa,  170,  373. 

Banks,  Sir  Joseph,  178,  206. 

Barbauld,  Mrs.,  57,  61,  126. 

Barrie,  Sir  James,  22,  27. 

Battle  Pieces,  358,  365. 

"Beauty,"  217. 

Beck,  Dr.  T.  Romeyn,  70. 

Becke,  Louis,  24. 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  305. 

Behn,  Aphra,  203. 

Bennett,  F.  D.,  137. 


391 


Bentley,  Richard,  273,  292,  293, 
294,     299,     300,     301,     302, 

3"; 

Berkshires,  23,  169,  305,  312. 

Besant,  Walter,  80,  177. 

Bildad,  27,  32,  154,  155,  157. 

Bildad,  Aunt  Charity,  144. 

Billson,  James,  360. 

Billy  Budd,  239,  381. 

Blake,  William,  74. 

Bligh,  Captain,  179,  181. 

Bob,  Captain,  220,  221. 

Bolton,  Harry,  106,  107. 

Boomer,  Captain,  27. 

Borabolla,  278. 

Borgia,  Rodrigo,  171,  176. 

Borrow,  George,  15,  81. 

Boston,  40,  42,  43,  47,  56,  63,  64, 

68,  83,  236,  251,  255,  258,  270, 

283,  312,  353,  369- 
Boston  Tea  Party,  42. 
Bounty,  The,  179. 
Bristol,  R.  I.,  44. 
Broadhall,  45,  47,  306. 
Browne,  J.  Ross,   137,    158,   159, 

166. 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  17,  22,  27, 

94,   121,    134,    146,  299,   304, 

357- 

Brownell,  C.  W.,  313,  330,  331. 
Browning,  Robert,  358,  365. 
Bryant,  William  Cullen,  305. 
Buchanan,  Robert,  349,  350. 
Buffalo  Courier,  164. 
Bullen,  Frank  T.,  90. 
Bunker,  Captain  Uriah,  140. 
Bunyan,  John,  134,  331. 
Burke,  Edmund,  140,  153. 
Burney,  Fanny,  66,  177. 


392 


HERMAN  MELVILLE 


Burton,    Robert,    116,    120,    121, 

126. 

Burton,  Sir  Richard,  15. 
Butler,  Samuel,  53. 
Byron,  Lord,  66,  120,  239. 
Byron,  Captain,  174,  176. 

Cabri,  Joseph,  196. 
Cape  Cod,  139,  142,  155. 
Caret,  188. 
Cargill,  David,  40. 
Cargill,  Mrs.  Mary,  40,  42. 
Carlyle,     Thomas,     44,     78,     82, 

343- 

Cartaret,  174,  176. 
Cavendish,  173. 
Champlain,  Lake,  34,  262. 
Chapone,  Mrs.,  58,  59,  61,  65,  126, 

259- 

Chase,  Frederic  Hathway,  257. 
Chase,   Jack,   32,   234,   238,    239, 

240,  241,  242,  245,  246,  251, 

381. 

Chase,  Owen,  136,  137. 
Chasles,  Philarete,  47. 
Chateaubriand,  Francois  Rene, 

205. 

Chatterton,  Thomas,  67. 
Chesterfield,  Lord,   116,  121. 
Chicago  Times,  i60. 
Churchill's  Voyages,  So. 
Clarel,  29,  105,  186,  225,  226,  227, 

257,  350,  352,  353,  357,  360, 

361,  365- 

Claret,  Captain,  235,  243,  244,  245. 
Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  365. 
Coan,  Titus  Munson,  23,  128,  351. 
Coffin,  Long  Tom,  81. 
Coleridge,  Samuel,  121,  146. 
College  of  New  Jersey,  42. 
Confidence  Man,  The,  17,  94,  227, 

348. 
Congregation  of  the  Propaganda, 

188. 
Conrad,  Joseph,  25,  81,  93. 


Constantinople,  132,  335,  336,  352, 

353,  354- 
Cook,  Captain  James,  80,  169,  172, 

173,   176,   177,   178,   183,  206, 

256. 

Cooke,  Edmund,  174. 
Cooper,  James  Fenimore,  18,  20, 

81,  93,  177,  203,  304. 
Covent  Garden  Theatre,  178. 
Cowley,  Abraham,  174. 
Cowper,  William,  151. 
Curtis,  George  William,  305,  360. 
Customs  House,   16,   19,  20,  376, 

377- 

Duyckinck,  George,  284,  285,  314, 

326,  380. 

Daedalus,  The,  179,  181. 
Dalrymple,  Alexander,  172. 
Dampier,  William,   171,  174. 
Dana,  Richard  Henry,  24,  25,  78, 

80,  81,  82,  84,  86,  87,  129,  131, 

295,  344,  345,  366. 
Dante,  27,  37,  109,  259,  293,  338, 

340,  343- 

Darling,  Captain,  183. 
Darwin,  Charles,  134. 
Davis,  Captain,  138,  167. 
D'Wolf,  Captain    (see  De  Wolf 

II,  Captain  John). 
Defoe,  Daniel,  137. 
Dekker,  Thomas,  27. 
Delaney,  Mrs.,  58. 
Delano,  R.,  138. 

de  Bougainville,  Louis,  175,  192. 
Desgraz,  C.,  188,  196. 
De  Wolf  II,  Captain  John,  44. 
De  Wolf,  Mrs.  John   (see  Mary 

Melville). 
Dibdin,  102. 
Donjalolo,  278. 
Donne,  Dr.  John,  22. 
Drake,  Sir  Francis,  173. 
Dryden,  John,   134. 
Duff,  The,  180,  182. 


INDEX 


393 


Du  Petit-Thouars,  Admiral,  189, 
190,  191,  193,  198,  219,  256. 

D'Urville,  Captain  Dumont,  190, 
191. 

Edwards,  Jonathan,  305. 

Eliot,  George,  330. 

Elizabeth,  Queen  of  England,  50, 

173- 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  18,  313, 

377- 

Encantadas,  The,  165,  348. 
Essex,  The,  137,  148. 

Fairhaven,   130. 

Fanning,  182. 

Fayaway,  32,  128,  210,  211,  213, 
260,  351. 

Fedellah,  32. 

Fielding,  Henry,  27,  288. 

Flaubert,  Gustave,  94,  132,  243. 

Fletcher,  John,  27,  304. 

Fletcher,  Captain,  301. 

Fleury,  Franchise  Raymonde  Eu- 
logie  Marie  de  Doulcurs 
Lame  (see  Mrs.  Thomas 
Melville — Melville's  aunt). 

Fluke,  243,  244. 

Forbes,  Thomas  T.,  85. 

Foster,  Newton,  81. 

France,  Anatole,  74,  136. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  73,  134,  297, 
298,  347. 

Franklin,  Admiral  S.  R.,  233,  234, 

235. 

Freud,  Sigmund,  17. 
Fuller  &  Co.,  Bradford,  130. 
Fuller,  Margaret,  78,  330. 
Furneaux,  Lieutenant,  175,  177. 

Gansevoort     (Saratoga     County, 

N.  Y.),  35- 
Gansevoort,    Harmen    Harmense 

Van,  34. 
Gansevoort,  General  Herman,  35. 


Gansevoort,  Maria  (see  Mrs.  Al 
lan  Melville). 

Gansevoort,  General  Peter,  34,  35, 
36,  38,  39,  40,  60,  89. 

Gansevoort,  Hon.  Peter,  35,  36, 
66,  68,  70,  71,  357. 

Gardener,  George,  155. 

Gauguin,  Paul,  185,  223. 

George  the  Third,  King,  175,  177, 
179,  182. 

Glendinning,  Marie,  54,  61. 

Glendinning,  Pierre  (see  Pierre). 

Goethe,  132,  304,  323,  324. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  66,  114,  209. 

Goode,  G.  Brown,  135,  155. 

Gordon,  Eliza,  241. 

Greene,  Herman  Melville,  165. 

Greene,  Richard  Tobias  (see 
Toby). 

Greenlander,  92,  93. 

Griswald,  Captain,  284,  289,  291. 

Guam,  171. 

Guy,  Captain,  217,  219,  221. 

Hair,  Richard  Melville,  165. 
Hakluyt's  Voyages,  80. 
Hannamanoo,   195. 
Hardy,  Lem,  195,  196,  197. 
Hardy,  Thomas,  29. 
Harper,  19,  253,  273,  339,  344. 
Harris'  Voyages,  80. 
Hart,  Col.  Joseph  C,  145. 
Harvard  College,  20,  42. 
Hautia,  279,  280. 
Hawkins,  Sir  Richard,  173. 
Hawthorne,  Julian,  311,  312,  314, 

315,     325,     326,     331,     334, 

336. 
Hawthorne,   Mrs.   Nathaniel,  22, 

23,  24,  309,  310,  312,  314,  317, 

325,  329,  330,  334,  335- 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  15,  1 6,  17, 

18,  21,  22,  23,  30,  32,  134, 
169,  250,  305,  306,  309,  311, 
3I2,  313,  314,  315,  316,  317, 


394 


HERMAN  MELVILLE 


318,  320,  321,  323,  324,  326, 

327,  328,  329,  330,  334,  335, 
336,  337;  340,  346,  347,  348, 

353- 

Hawthorne,  Una,  24,  334. 
Henricy,  Casimir,  193. 
Highlander,  The,  88,  90,  98,  100, 

101,  105,  108,  109,  218. 
Hervey,  Captain,  187. 
Hobard,     Mary    Anna    Augusta 

(Mrs.     Thomas    Melville  — 

Melville's  aunt),  45. 
Hobbes,  Thomas,  134. 
Hodges,  W.,  177. 
Holland,  Dr.,  296. 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  40,  305, 

346,  352. 

Honolulu,   156,  236. 
Hook,  Captain,  22,  27. 
Howe,  Julia  Ward,  33. 
Hubbard,  130,  160. 
Hun,  Dr.  Henry,  70,  71. 
Hussey,  Christopher,  139,  140. 
Huxley,  Aldous,  132. 
Huxley,  Thomas,  53. 

Imeeo,  228,  231. 
Independence,  The,  301. 
Irving,  Washington,  18. 
Ishmael,  18,  27,  62,  89,  131,  160, 

351. 

Israel     Potter,     293,     302,     304, 

347- 
Israel  Potter,  297,  298. 

Jackson,   32,   92,   93,   94,   96,   97, 

100. 

Jackson,  Andrew,  42. 
James,  G.  P.  R.,  23,  305. 
Janet,  The,  148. 
Jarl,  32,  274,  275. 
Jermin,  John,  217,  219,  221. 
Jewell,  J.  Grey,  88. 
John  Marr,  357,  365. 
Johnson,  Arthur,  342. 


Johnson,   Dr.,  78,   177,    178,  279, 

353- 

Johnson,  Captain  Charles,  80. 
Jones,  John  Paul,  347. 
Henry,  Joseph,  71. 
Jidia,  The,  215,  216,  217,  218,  219, 

220,  221. 

Kant,  Immanuel,  17,  108,  285,  288. 
Kemble,  Fanny,  305. 
Kingsley,  Charles,  33. 
Kippis,  Dr.,  172. 
Knapp,  Elizabeth,  257. 
Knox,  John,  50,  185. 
Kory-Kory,  32,  209,  210,  212,  213. 
Krusenstern,  Admiral,  44,  182. 

Ladrones,  171. 

La  Farge,  John,  24,  211,  220. 
La  Maire,  Captain,  173. 
Lamb,  Charles,  27,  56,  295. 
Langsdorff,  Captain,  44. 
Lansingburg,    69,    118,    126,    251, 

252,  258,  262,  263,  265,  271. 
Laplace,  Captain,  192,  193. 
Larry"  93. 

Lathers,  Col.  Richard,  308. 
Lathrop,  G.  P.,  313. 
Lavendar,  93. 
Lawrence,  D.  H.,  342. 
Lavvton,  William  Cranston,  20. 
Lemaitre,  Jules,  205. 
Lemsford,  241. 
Lenox,   305,   309,    311,   319,   337, 

340. 

Leviathan,  The,  229,  231. 
Lincoln,  Abraham,  231,  375,  376. 
Liverpool,  55,  73,  79,  83,  85,  91, 

98,  99,  101,  102,  103,  107,  108, 

in,  113,  126,  132,  334,  335, 

336. 

Lockhart,  John  Gibson,  296. 
Long  Island,  139,  155. 
Lono,  176,  177. 
Lombroso,  Cesare,  17. 


INDEX 


395 


London,  290,  291,  293,  297,  299, 

302,  308,  352. 
London,  Jack,  24. 
London  Missionary  Society,  19, 

174,   175,   178,   180,   182,   183, 

184,  208,   222,  225,  227. 

Longfellow,    Henry    Wadsworth, 

22,  255,  305. 
Long  Ghost,  Doctor,  32,  217,  218, 

219,  222,  227,  228,  229,  230, 

231,  232. 
Louis    Philippe   of    France,    189, 

190. 
Lowell,    James   Russell,    221,    33, 

305,  348. 

Mac  Maehan,  Archibald,  380,  381. 

Macy,  Obed,  136,  141,  145,  155. 

Magellan,  170,  171,  172,  173,  373. 

Mandeville,  Sir  John,  29. 

Mapple,  Father,  27,  32. 

Mardi,  20,  37,  38,  105,  121,  T48, 
151,  240,  256,  272,  273,  274, 
277,  278,  279,  280,  283,  344, 

357,  377- 

Marheyo,  209,  212,  213,  250. 

Mariner,  William,  206. 

Marnoo,  32. 

Marquesas  Islands,  133,  161,  168, 
169,  173,  176,  178,  181,  182, 
190,  191,  193,  194,  197,  198, 
199,  200,  211,  214,  233,  236, 
237,  253,  255,  256,  351. 

Marryat,  Captain  Frederick,  20, 
81,  88,  240. 

Martin,  Dr.  John,  206. 

Martin,  Winthrope  L.,  135. 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  50. 

Masefield,    John,   22,   25,   29,   30, 

79,  331. 

Massinger,  Philip,  27. 
Mather,    Jr.,    Frank    Jewell,    27, 

341,  342,  347,  352,  357,  365- 
Mather,  Richard,  138. 
Matilda,  The,  179,  181. 


Maugham,  Somerset,  24. 

Max,  92,  93. 

Melvil  of  Hallhill,  Sir  James,  50, 

Si- 

Melvil,  William,  50. 

Melville,  Alexander,  6th  Earl  of, 
etc.,  51,  52,  101. 

Melville,  Allan  (Melville's  great 
grandfather),  47. 

Melville,  Allan  (Melville's  fa 
ther),  33,  34,  44,  49,  50,  51, 

52,  53,  54,  55,  56,  57,  58,  59, 
60,  63,  64,  65,  66,  67,  68,  69, 
74,  102,  103,  258,  259. 

Melville,  Allan  (Melville's  broth 
er),  251,  254,  265,  267,  272, 
283,  284,  299,  301,  345,  346, 
367,  368,  376. 

Melville,  Mrs.  Allan  (nee  Maria 
Gansevoort,  Melville's  moth- 

er),  33,  34,  54,  56,  57,  58,  59, 
60,  61,  62,  63,  64,  65,  68,  69, 
85,  88,  251,  259,  261,  283,  359- 

Melville,  Andrew  ("Episcopomas- 
trix"),  49,  50. 

Melville,  Andrew  (Chevalier), 
50. 

Melville,  Anna  Marie  Priscilla, 
46. 

Melville,  Augusta  (Melville's  sis 
ter),  271,  272,  273,  283. 

Melville,  Deborah  (wife  of  John. 
See  Scollay,  Deborah). 

Melville,  Elizabeth  Shaw  (Mel 
ville's  wife),  113,  130,  257, 
258,  260,  261,  262,  265,  268, 
270,  272,  273,  279,  289,  290, 
298,  299,  303,  304,  310,  311, 
340,  346,  352,  360,  368,  376, 
382. 

Melville,  Fanny,  283. 

Melville,  Gansevoort  (Melville's 
brother),  63,  64,  65,  66,  67, 
69,  82,  206,  251,  252,  253, 
255,  297,  301. 


396 


HERMAN  MELVILLE 


Melville,  Helen  (Melville's  aunt), 

63- 

Melville,  Helen  Marie  (Melville's 

sister),  63,  64,  271,  283. 
Melville    of    Carnbee,    Sir    John, 

47,  49- 
Melville,  John— Lord  of  Raith  in 

Fife,  50. 

Melville,  John,  43. 
Melville,      Malcolm      (Melville's 

son),  273,  287,  289,  299,  302, 

346. 
Melville,    Mary    (Mrs.    John    De 

Wolf),  44- 

Melville,  Pierre  Franqois  Henry 
Thomas  Wilson,  46. 

Melville,  Priscilla  (wife  of  Major 
Thomas— See  Scollay,  Pris 
cilla). 

Melville,  Sir  Richard  de,  etc.,  34, 

47- 

Melville,  Sir  Robert,  50. 
Melville,  General  Robert,  42. 
Melville,       Thomas       (Melville's 

great-great-grandfather),  47, 

50. 

Melville,  Major  Thomas  (Mel 
ville's  grandfather),  40,  42, 

43,  44,  45. 

Melville,  Thomas  (Melville's  un 
cle),  44,  45,  46,  47,  72. 

Melville,  Thomas  (Melville's 
brother),  85,  251,  255,  271, 
281,  283,  353,  358,  366. 

Mencken,  H.  L.,  93. 

Mendoca,  173. 

Meredith,  George,  22,  29, 105,  358. 

Metcalf,  Eleanor  Melville,  377. 

Miguel,  91,  92,  93. 

Milton,  John,  28,  37,  120,  134, 
372- 

Moby-Dick,  21,  25,  26,  27,  28,  29, 

44,  62,  116,  121,  130,  133,  134, 
135,  136,  137,  144,  149,  150, 
154,  159,  162,  167,  274,  306, 


311,  318,  319,  324,  327,  328, 

329,  330,  331,  332,  333,  337, 

340,  341,  344,  365,  380. 
Moby-Dick,  30,  31,  131,  133,  382. 
Moerenhatit     (French    consul    at 

Tahiti),  190. 
Molucca  Islands,  171. 
Monluc,  Bishop  of  Valence,  50. 
Montaigne,  Michel,  204,  205,  241, 

278. 

Montegut,  Emile,  317. 
Montgomery,  Mrs.  Helen  Barrett, 

i87. 

Moore,  Tom,  125,  126. 
More,  Mrs.  Hannah,  57,  114. 
Mortimer,  Mrs.  F.  L.,  183. 
Mouat,  Captain,  174. 
Mow-Mow,  212,  213,  245. 
Munsell,  Joel,  36. 
Murphy,  Father,  221. 
Murray,  John,  252,  253,  292,  294, 
295>  296,  302. 

Nantucket,  27,  42,  130,  136,  139, 
140,  141,  142,  143,  144,  145, 
147,  154,  155,  160,  373. 

Nation,  The  London,  21. 

New  Bedford,  129,  130,  139,  142, 
143,  144,  154,  155,  156,  159, 
1 60. 

New  England,  16,  20,  22,  24,  33, 
83,  126,  132,  134,  138,  139, 
140,  142,  154,  155,  156,  157, 

305- 

Newfoundland,  140. 

New  Guinea,  174. 

New  London.  139,  142,   156. 

New  York  City,  33,  44,  63,  68, 
73,  79,  82,  83,  91,  99,  108, 
109,  142,  265,  271,  303,  304, 
308,  350,  353,  367,  369,  376, 
381. 

Nietzsche,  Friedrich,  16,  240,  332. 

Nord,  241. 

Nordau,  Max,  17. 


INDEX 


397 


Nukuheva,  193,  199,  200,  202,  211, 

212,  233. 
Nye,  N.  H.,  144. 

Oberea,  175,  178. 

O'Brien,  Frederick,  24,  206,  214. 

"Old  Combustibles,"  235. 

Omai,  177,  178. 

Omoo,  21,  29,  115,  133,  167,  206, 
208,  215,  224,  235,  236,  252, 
255,  256,  273,  283,  287,  308, 

339,  344,  365,  37i,  375,  376. 
Otaheiti  (see  Tahiti). 
Oto  (see  Pomare  II,  King). 
Outooroo,  175. 

Paine,  Ralph  D.,  83. 

Pandora,  The,  179. 

Paris,  297,  298. 

Parker,  Daniel  P.,  281. 

Paton,  John  G.,  203. 

Paulet,  Sir  George,  235. 

Pease,  Captain,  130,  147,  161,  166, 

169,  195. 

Peleg,  27,  32,  154,  157. 
Pequod   The,   131,   149,   162,  331, 

332,  338. 
Pert,  Mr.,  235. 
Philippines,  171. 
Piazza  Tales,  165,  306,  348. 
Pierre,  17, 19, 20,  29,  35,  48,  54,  56. 

61,  62,  63,  113,  114,  115,  122, 

125,  208,  225,  260,  280,  311, 

338,  339,  34i,  342,  343,  344- 
Pierre,  32,  35,  36,  37,  39,  49,  54, 

61,  62,  63,  67,  114,  115,  121, 

280,  342,  343. 
Pittsfield,  45,  46,  47,   63,  72,  113, 

130,  160,  169,  228,  303,  304, 

306,  308,  314,  315,  318,  327, 

33i,  336,  35i,  352,  359,  367, 

369,  376. 

Plato,  1 8,  128,  371. 
Po-Po,   Jeremiah,   228,   229,   231, 

232. 


Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  152,  357. 

Polynesia,  29,  186,  187,  203,  221, 
223,  224,  228,  251,  275,  373. 

Pomare  I,  King,  181,  186,  187. 

Pomare  II,  King,  187,  221. 

Pomare,  Queen,  187,  189,  190,  191, 
193,  219,  229,  230,  231,  234. 

Pope,  Alexander,  28,  134. 

Porter,  Captain,  182,  194. 

Providence,  R.  I.,  139. 

Priestly,  Joseph,  177. 

Princeton  (see  College  of  New 
Jersey). 

Pringle,  Sir  John,  177. 

Pritchard,  The  Rev.  (British  Con 
sul  at  Tahiti),  190,  219. 

Putnam,  G.  P.,  347. 

Queequeg,  32,  147. 

Rabelais,  Frangois,  21,  22,  27,  93, 

105,  134,  277. 
Raynal,  Abbe,  172. 
Redburn,  29,  38,  44,  54,  62,  68,  78, 

79,  81,  82,  100,  106,  107,  133, 

157,  159,  272,  273,  283,  292, 

294,  304,  344,  365- 
Reine  Blanche,  The,  193,  199,  219, 

256. 

Repplier,  Agnes,  58,  166. 
Revere,  Paul,  42. 
Reybaud,  Louis,  192. 
Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  177. 
Rhode  Island,  42,  44. 
Ricketson,  Daniel,  136. 
Riga,  Captain,  no,  in. 
Rio  (de  Janeiro),  31,  167,  245. 
Roberts,  E.,  196. 
Rodney,  Mate,  27. 
Rome,  132,  371,  372. 
Rouchouse,   Bishop  of  Nilolopis, 

188,  190,  191. 
Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques,   22,   79, 

132,  151,  204,  299,  304. 
Royal  Society,  176,  177,  178,  206. 


398 


HERMAN  MELVILLE 


Royce,  Josiah,  339. 

Ruskin,  John,  33. 

Russell,    W.    Clark,    24,    79,    174, 

365,  366. 

Rutland,  Duke  of,  299,  300,  301, 

304- 

Sabine,  Lorenzo,  136,  138. 
Saddle-Meadows,  35,   36,  39. 
Safroni-Middleton,  A.,  24. 
Sag  Harbor,  142. 
Sainte-Beuve,    Charles   Augustin, 

93,  94- 

Salem,  Mass.,  83. 
Samoa,  275,  276. 
Salt,  H.  S.,  79. 
Sandusky  Mirror,  164. 
Sandwich,  Earl  of,  172. 
Sandwich   Islands,   46,    178,   223, 

235,  345,  375- 
Savage,  Hope,  257. 
Scammon,  C.  M.,  136. 
Schopenhauer,   Arthur,  338,   339, 

343,  366,  377- 

Schouten,  173,  174. 

Scollay,  Deborah,  43. 

Scollay,  Priscilla,  43,  44. 

Scoresby,  William,  136. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  81,  120,  239, 
296. 

Sedgewick,  Catherine,  305. 

Seward,  Miss  (The  Swan  of 
Litchfield),  178. 

Shakespeare,  William,  21,  28, 
120,  240,  348. 

Shaw,  Elizabeth  (see  Melville- 
Mrs.  Herman). 

Shaw,  John  Oakes,  257. 

Shaw,  Chief  Justice  Lemuel,  16, 
43,  257,  258,  340,  344,  345, 

366,  369- 

Shaw,  Lemuel  (son  of  Chief  Jus 
tice),  257,  268,  269,  270,  273. 

Shaw,  Samuel  Savage,  257,  267, 
270,  272,  280,  281,  282,  310. 


Shenley,  243. 

Sigourney,  Mrs.,  305. 

Smith,  Adam,  91. 

Smith,  J.  E.  A.,  45,  72,  113,  252, 

313,  352,  369- 
Smollett,  Tobias,  27,  81. 
Society  Islands,  174,  236. 
Society  of  Picpus,  188. 
Socrates,  18,  344,  371. 
Solomon,   29,   30,    151,    152,   323, 

333- 

Solomon  Islands,  173,  174. 

Southampton,  The,  284,  290. 

Southport  (England),  30,  334, 
335,  336. 

South  Seas,  24,  113,  127,  131,  141, 
174,  177,  178,  179,  187,  188, 
195,  196,  203,  205,  206,  216, 
219,  234,  236,  251,  256,  283, 
337,  357,  37i,  373,  374,  375, 
377- 

Spencer,  John  C.,  164. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  134. 

Spilbergen,  Joris,   173. 

Stanwix,  Fort,  34,  36. 

Starbuck,  Alexander,  130,  135, 
136,  141,  332. 

Stearns,  Frank  Preston,  23. 

Stedman,  Arthur,  113,  128,  129, 
130,  131,  236,  349,  350, 

365. 

Steelkilt,  27. 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  20,  22, 

24,  28,  56,  201,  357. 
Stoddard,    Charles    Warren,    24, 

357,  376,  377- 
Sturges,  William,  85. 
Swift,  Jonathan,  21,  40,  331. 

Tahiti,  16,  132,  174,  175,  177,  178, 
179,  180,  182,  183,  184,  185, 
186,  187,  189,  191,  192,  193, 
199,  219,  221,  224,  225,  227, 
228,  230,  231,  234,  235,  236, 
256,  339- 


INDEX 


399 


Taji,  105. 

Tashetego,  32. 

Tasman,  172,  173,  174. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  304. 

Taylor,   Dr.,  285,   287,  288,   289, 

291,  292. 
Tanae,  182. 

Tennyson,  Lord  Alfred,  365. 
Thackeray,    William    Makepeace, 

28,  125. 

Thompson,  Francis,  28,  129. 
Thomson,  James,  22,  28. 
Thoreau,  Henry  David,  22,   131, 

132. 

Timoleon,  340,  353,  357,  365. 
Toby,  32,  130,  133,  162,  164,  165, 

1 66,  1 68,  200,  201,  202,  203, 

209,  211,  212. 

Tonga  Islands,  206. 

Tower,  Walter  S.,  135,  138,  142. 

Typee,  21,  29,  113,  114,  115,  116, 

128,  130,  133,  162,  163,  165, 

1 66,  199,  206,  207,  208,  209, 

211,  216,  223,  235,  236,  237, 

252,  253,  255,  256,  257,  258, 

283,  297,  308,  323,  339,  344, 
35i,  365,  37i,  375»  376. 

United  States,  The,  233,  235,  236, 
237,  239,  240,  242,  243,  245, 
246,  250,  252. 

University  of  New  York,  35. 

Van  Schaek,  Henry,  45. 

Van  Schaick,  Catharine,  34,  43. 

Vedder,  Elihu,  365,  366. 


Venus,  The,  189. 
Verrill,  Hyatt,  135,  142. 
Victoria,  Queen  of  England,  22, 

33,    101,    189,    191,  230,  231, 

295,  330- 

Villon,  Franqois,  94. 
Vincendon-Dumoulin,  188,  196. 
Voltaire,  Francois,  203. 

Willis,  Captain,  174,  175,  176. 

Walpole,  Horace,  339. 

Washington,  George,  35,  36,  42, 
320. 

Watson,  E.  L.  Grant,  331. 

Watson,  Elkahah,  45. 

Webster,  Daniel,  134. 

Webster,  John,  27. 

Wendell,  Barrett,  20. 

West,  Professor  Charles  E.,  72. 

West,  Captain  Isaiah,  155. 

White-Jacket,  29,  133,  167,  234, 
236,  237,  240,  242,  250,  251, 
283,  294,  295,  299,  302,  304, 

339>  344,  377- 

Whitman,  Walt,  33,  221,  350. 
Wiley  &  Putnam,  253. 
Williams,  242. 
Willis,  Col.  George  S.,  352. 
Wilson,  Captain,  180. 
Wordsworth,  William,  56,  57,  78, 

132. 

Yillah,  277,  279,  280. 
Young,  Edward,  151. 

.Zola,  Emile,  22,  79. 


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